


To Exist Again

by Demenior



Series: The Love It Takes... [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels are Weird (Supernatural), BAMF Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer Lives, Castiel & Sam Winchester Bonding, Castiel's True Form (Supernatural), Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Has Issues, Found Family, Hallucination Lucifer (Supernatural) | Hallucifer, Hurt Sam Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Parental Bobby Singer, Protective Sam Winchester, Recovery, Sam Winchester Has Issues, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Sam Winchester's Visions, Season/Series 08, Slice of Life, Team Free Will (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demenior/pseuds/Demenior
Summary: Sam says, “Dad’s long gone,” and Dean can’t look at Sam as he says that, because it’s been like five years now, and while it still feels like Dad’s looming over them, it also feels that maybe, just maybe, they’re far enough away that they can escape him, can get away from who he ordered them to be, “and his way isn’t working for us. So, I figured maybe it’s time for something new.”orThe Winchesters saved the world. Sam denied God's plan, overpowered Lucifer, went to hell, and had his mind, body and soul broken beyond repair. Now, as he rebuilds himself and finds his psychic powers returning, Sam gets to choose: can he go back to who he was? Who is he expected to be? What kind of man does he want to be?
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lucifer & Sam Winchester
Series: The Love It Takes... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089389
Comments: 177
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to “The Love It Takes” ‘verse, with the first story (The Love It Takes) To Exist Again!
> 
> This fic is the launch of what I have intended to be a full “verse” which leads into what I always envisioned the ending of Supernatural to be. While not an exact rewrite, we will end up diverging further and further from canon, and also not covering all the plot points of canon either. As this is intended to be a full verse, this story lays the foundations for things that will show up in later installments. It’s also good to remember that narrators are important, and not always reliable. 
> 
> I love and adore these characters and I have such a soft spot for the show, so this is my love letter to it. 
> 
> This fic is rated T, as overall it is T but does have instances of slightly higher-rating events. I will warn for those per chapter. The boys say 'fuck' a lot. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Sam is in a very traumatized and mildly dissociative headspace for the start of the story, mentions of self-harm and references to suicide. Supernatural-standard ableist language regarding mental health. Both Dean and Sam have very codependent coping strategies that aren't healthy, but it works for them. Overall, nothing you wouldn't see in the show. 
> 
> Welcome to Sam’s story.

Sam considers his life a tragedy in slow motion. He is a train wreck that is inevitable, and painful, and nothing can stop it. 

Mom dies, Dad hates him, Dad dies, Dean dies to save him, he’s the Boy With The Demon Blood, the future King of Hell, he’s Lucifer’s destined vessel, the personification of darkness and sin itself, and just when he seems to get a break, well, his soul stayed in the cage and soaked up a few hundred more years of pain, and then Sam’s wall came tumbling down. Bobby’s out of commission in the hospital, they still don’t know if he’ll ever wake up. 

He doesn’t get too much time to process that. Because right on the heels of that: Dean kills the leviathan leader, and suddenly Dean’s gone too. 

And Sam is left to pick up his broken pieces on his own. 

* * *

He’s never quite alone, truth be told. Lucifer is always there, over his shoulder. Sam ignores him, refuses to acknowledge him no matter what face Lucifer wears. Sam spends one week in the bunker before it feels too big, too small and too much like a crypt. A cage. He packs his bags and goes. Lucifer talks a lot, and it fills the long stretches of time that Sam’s awake and moving, with no idea of where he’s going.

* * *

Sometimes it’s nice to have someone fill the silence, to ride shotgun, even if they aren’t actually there. He’ll never admit it, but Sam knows that Lucifer can feel that. Lucifer sings along to the radio. Sam turns up the sound a little louder, and doesn’t think about how much he misses Dean.

He hums along with the devil.

Sam wishes he was stronger. 

* * *

Sam tries to hunt, in between looking for Dean.

He can’t stop looking at these monsters, made to be what they are, made to be _hated_ with no other choice, and he sees himself in them.

Sam’s a good hunter, a great one even without Dean around, and he gets the job done. And then he lays awake for days while Lucifer tells Sam how they’re no better than any monster, in fact they’re worse, and they should probably be put down too. Unfortunately, they’re God’s specially chosen punching bag. They don’t get the mercy of a swift death. 

Sam stops hunting.

* * *

Three months in, and no sign of Dean. No one knows anything. Heaven and Hell are quiet, nervous about what happened to the leviathans, about what could be next. It’s like the whole world is holding its breath. Can they move on? Or will some new pre-godly terror rise up to try and kill everyone?

Crowley mentions something about that Abaddon they released being a problem for him, when he finally manages to find Sam. 

“Whaddaya say, Moose? You, me, and the devil makes three?” Crowley jokes, “I figure you’re in need of a partner considering your brother and the angel are still MIA.”

“Can you get me to Dean?” Sam asks. He’s not sure how Crowley found him, but he’s not surprised. Sam isn’t sure if he’s going to keep drifting, or if he’s going to try and settle down with a job somewhere. He’ll need somewhere where he’s alone most of the time, and they won’t mind when he talks to himself. 

“Do you know where he is?” Crowley asks with a shrug. He’s standing just outside the doorway of Sam’s motel room, considering there’s a devil trap on the rug inside. 

“Do you?” Sam counters. 

Crowley barely hesitates, “If they’re still alive, I’d imagine Dick took them home.”

Purgatory. Yeah, Sam wondered the same. And they know _shit_ about Purgatory. Does time even pass the same there? Hell time is fast compared to earth time, whereas heaven time seems almost slow compared to earth time. There’s so many stories and ways into both planes, up or down, but there is _nothing_ about getting into or out of Purgatory. 

It’s been three months earth side. How long has Dean been trapped in the realm of monsters? Of leviathans? Is Cas of any use, or did Cas finally break under pressure? Sam doesn’t even know if they torture in Purgatory, if they’d keep Dean alive. Because everything from Purgatory is so ravenously hungry, that if they ever caught Dean, Sam can’t imagine they’d hesitate before eating him.

“Can you get there?” Sam asks, keeping his voice level, “can you pull Dean out?” 

Crowley considers a moment, before he shakes his head, “At the moment? No, sorry Moose--”

Sam slams the door in his face. 

* * *

“He’s not coming back,” Lucifer reminds Sam. Today he’s wearing Jess’ soft face, and she’s so young that Sam mourns being young with her, that they never had the chance to get old together. He mourns that she loved him, because that’s why she had to die, “Dean is dead. I’m all you have left.” 

Sam’s too captivated by Jess’ features that he doesn’t notice the dog run into the street until it’s too late. 

* * *

Amelia is kind, and forgiving, when Sam slips up and talks to people who aren’t there. She understands, or acts like it, when he wakes up screaming and when he can’t sleep for days. 

For the last year before Cas took on his crazy, while Sam’s brain was swiss cheese and he was slowly dying while his brain fried itself from the inside out, Sam spent almost every night in Dean’s bed like he was five and scared of the dark. But Dean was real, Dean was real, _Dean was real_. Sam would think he was waking up, or falling asleep, or maybe he was dreaming, and the only thing that helped him know where he was, was the weight of Dean’s hands, or the warmth of Dean’s back to his. Sam thought he was more than fine sleeping next to someone. In fact, he was excited about it. Amelia can’t be his anchor, not like Dean was, but she could be _someone_ for him. 

Amelia understands, and almost seems relieved, the first time they attempt to have sex and Sam loses time and wakes up after he’s locked himself in the bathroom and thrown up on himself. They don’t try again. 

It’s nice, because she goes for days being unable to speak to needing to yell enough to alarm their new neighbours. On particularly bad days Sam drives her out of town until they find somewhere isolated enough for her to scream and cry until she loses her voice. They make hot chocolate with marshmallows after. And Sam’s found he’s not... he’s not good with touch, with the shape of another body against him, but when she’s wrapped in a blanket and curled up small, he finds it easy to let her be close to him and he finds the weight of her isn’t too much to bear. They find a kind of normal, between them, that’s not normal at all. 

She lost someone, lost her heart, and Sam can relate to that. She boxes up the cutlery and keeps the scissors out of the house and they eat with plastic spoons for three months because Lucifer won’t stop reminding Sam about all the things he can do with a sharp edge. Sam’s strong enough, in the times she’s so sad she can’t get up, to lift her to her feet and carry her to the shower. 

Sam thinks that maybe he and Amelia could make a life of this. Their broken edges are completely jagged, and sometimes they cut each other, but for the most part they fit. 

On good days she pours herself into working excessive hours until she collapses at home. Sam devotes his time to caring for her, because this is a role his hands need to fill-- he needs _someone_ to look after, because if his hands aren’t busy then he might as well be dead. He keeps the space clean, they both dote on their dog because when they can’t love themselves they can love him. Their dog is very, very spoiled. 

And for a little while? Sam can pretend it works. 

* * *

Bobby comes out of his coma. Sam takes off to see him. It’s going to be some time before he’s back on his feet, longer still to see what the lasting effects will be, but he’s alive.

There are people, better people, more abled people, that respect Bobby and are going to make sure he’s taken care of in ways much better than what Sam is capable of. Sam stays for a few days, and tries to keep himself together. All of these hunters look at him with awe. Word spreads fast in the community. They know he’s the one with the dead brother, the one who took out the leviathans. That he's the one who dragged the devil back down into the pit. 

Just a few years ago most of these hunters were trying to hunt him down and kill him, convinced that Sam was the worst monster they’d ever encountered.

“They think you’re a hero,” Lucifer realizes, and he laughs to himself, “that won’t last long, Sam. They’ll see what you are soon enough, it’s not safe here.” 

Sam accidentally falls asleep once, and wakes a house of Hunters to the sounds of his screams. 

Once Sam can be sure Bobby is okay, he runs home to Amelia and doesn’t leave the house for a week. 

* * *

Sam and Amelia get domestic in their trauma. It… it becomes something they can acknowledge, and talk about, even when things are good. Sam’s never experienced that before, has never known anything but keeping his pain to himself. 

Sam tells her that he sees someone terrifying, someone that hurt him, that talks to him and follows him everywhere. That he knows it’s all in his head, that this is a projection of himself, and that makes it worse. Once, as a joke, Amelia sets out an extra plate for ‘Sam’s other half’ and the joke goes sour when Lucifer thinks it’s funny and Sam refuses to agree with him on anything. In solidarity Amelia admits that she thinks about talking to her dead husband, even if he can’t hear her, that it would make _her_ feel better. Amelia tells Sam about her husband, about how she loved him so much, so deeply, that losing him has left her with all this love that she doesn’t know where to put it. 

Sam thinks someone else might have offered to take it. He’s not the right shapes for her kind of love, not after being twisted and broken in hell. At the same time, she seems terrified at the thought of pushing her love onto someone, especially when it’s still stained with her grief. 

They share a bed but not their bodies. They share a home but not a life. They share their secrets but not all of them. 

Sometimes they put out four settings for dinner. They don’t eat regularly enough for it to become habit, but it’s an inside joke for the two of them. A way of inviting their traumas to the table, and accepting them. 

This isn’t sustainable, and they know it, but it’s a respite. It’s a place to hide away from the world, to put their heads down, and be broken until they’re ready to pick themselves up. 

* * *

That time comes sooner than later. Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, having dreamed of his brother for the first time in months. Alone, bloodied, in the dark. It’s all of Sam’s biggest fears: that Dean is in danger and Sam can't help him. So why does it make him feel so hopeful? In the corner of the room Lucifer smiles at him. 

Sam lays himself down and remembers his brothers face. He misses him so much. 

* * *

Amelia receives a phone call. It’s about her husband. He’s alive.

* * *

Bobby calls Sam a few days later. Dean is sitting in his kitchen, and is very much alive. 

He wants to know where Sam is.

* * *

It’s time for them to leave their hideaway. Sam adores Amelia, and he wishes he could kiss her, but he holds her tight, lets her hold him, and they both lie and say they’ll stay in touch. Once upon a time, with a soul slightly less ruined, Sam wonders if he could have loved her. 

“We’re not capable of things like that,” Lucifer reminds him, "we were made to be unlovable."

* * *

Dean has come back, relatively unscathed, but not unchanged. He spent a year in the realm of monsters, being hunted by everyone and everything. He had Cas with him, but Cas didn’t make it. Sam supposes, despite everything, he should be thankful to Castiel for that. 

Dean’s face gets so dark when he delivers the news about Cas, like that should be the end of the world. Sam glances at Bobby, wonders if Sam’s missing something, but he figures that Dean and Cas have always been close, so it makes sense that Dean’s sad about losing him. 

Dean’s twitchy, too. He eats whatever he can get his hands on and barely chews, his hands shake when he’s not holding a weapon. Dean’s never been overweight, despite his horrible diet, but now he’s notably lean like a sharpened edge. And he wants to go hunting. Right away. 

He falls asleep on Sam while they’re sitting on Bobby’s couch. It’s like dealing with a hyperactive child. One instant he was insisting that he’s good to hunt, that he’ll take anything, and the next he’s pitched over sideways into Sam’s lap. 

Sam politely extracts himself to rejoin Bobby in the kitchen. 

There’s not much to say-- clearly Dean’s traumatised. Only time will tell if he’ll go back to normal, but none of them are normal. Conversation with Bobby is hard. How are you doing? How are _you_ doing? One of them got shot in the head, missed the end of the leviathans, the other still wakes up wondering if any of this is real or not. They’ve barely talked in the last year, just a phone call around holidays to confirm they’re both still alive. Sam should have visited more, but he knows he can’t hide how fucked up he is from Bobby. 

But Dean is a weight that balances Sam’s universe. With his return, Sam can almost feel himself sliding back towards normal. Manageable. 

Lucifer finds it’s funny that Sam thinks he could ever be normal. 

  
  


Dean wakes up while Sam and Bobby are talking, and he’s so angry he can barely speak. Instead, he kicks over Bobby’s table, yells a string of insults that make no sense because they’re some mangled Ennochian-English-French mashup. Since when did Dean know French? And then he takes his blood-stained purgatory blade and retreats to the panic room. He refuses to come out for the rest of the day. 

Eventually Sam coaxes him out, but only if Sam agrees to share a bed with Dean that night. 

It's like when the wall in Sam's brain came down, and he couldn't sleep unless Dean was beside him. Dean gave him that comfort, and Sam doesn't mind returning the favor. More often than not, Dean sleeps on the floor because the bed is too soft. Sam lays awake and wonders how long it will be until his brother can leave the warzone behind him.

Dean used to snore, and now he’s silent throughout the night. But at least he sleeps. 

* * *

Dean finds it hilarious that their first case is vampires. Sam is a year out of practice, but even then, holding a blade is so familiar it’s like coming home. Dean’s nervous shakes go away for the first time since he came back, and he moves silent and confident in a way that makes Sam nervous. Purgatory honed Dean to a fine edge, and made a perfect killing machine out of his brother. 

Sam’s never seen anyone fight like Dean does that night. Dean wipes out the nest by himself. He’s brutal, fast and efficient. His hand doesn’t waver, his swings are confident and lethal. The vamps don’t even know what hit them. It helps, because Lucifer won’t stop talking about Lenore, and how most of these vampires probably never asked for this. That they are all victims of an absent father who wants Sam to bear the burden of his guilt. None of them had a choice in this: they were created and branded evil before they even got to decide who they wanted to be. Dean kills without question, seeing monsters and not tragedies. 

“They’re us, they’re us-- he’s killing us!” Lucifer screams, so loud that Sam almost can’t hear the sound of Dean fighting. Sam’s machete shakes in his hand, and he never takes the chance to raise it.

Dean laughs in the aftermath, giddy and alive with the thrill of a fight. He doesn’t know to wipe the blood off of his face. 

He goes to cut off one of the vamp’s arms before Sam stops him. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, embarrassed, and all he explains is, “habit.” 

He won’t elaborate any more than ‘arms are easier to carry’. 

* * *

That’s their new normal.

Dean makes them sleep in shifts, locked in the same room together. Sam supposes this is cause for concern, but it reminds him too much of when they were kids trying to make their gas station groceries stretch until Dad came back. Those pockets of time, scattered throughout his childhood, where it was just him and Dean? Those are the times Sam thinks on fondly, where he built his foundations. So laying in an unfamiliar motel room, listening to Dean breathe where he’s sleeping on the floor between the beds (the beds are too soft), it feels a bit like coming home. Dean sleeps in weird spurts, and wakes up throughout the night to take watch while Sam’s supposed to sleep. Sam supposes he should mind it, but he’s too happy to have Dean home to care. Sam doesn’t have a normal sleep cycle anyways, and the two of them make it work. 

Dean does the killing. Sam tries to make up for it with doing the legwork, the research that Dean hates doing. Dean _loves_ killing, and it’s the only time Sam sees him comfortable in his skin again. Sam goes out of his way to find more monsters to Dean to hunt, and ignores the way Lucifer cries at night over all of the blood on their hands.

Dean is traumatized, and having trouble readjusting to normal life. And that’s okay. He was there while Sam was falling apart. This time, Sam can be the one Dean leans on. 

They’ll hunt all the monsters it takes before Dean starts to feel safe again. It keeps other people safe, and Sam loves Dean more than he cares about his own comfort. Sam just has to get used to the contradiction of an abomination also being a monster hunter.

Dean opts to sleep on the floor most nights.

“Unfortunate,” Lucifer muses, perched on the bed Dean left empty, “that our love is poison.”

* * *

“Take that one first,” Dean remarks, nodding to the teenaged girl sweeping the floor of the cafe they stepped into, “make it messy to scare everyone back to the edges, and with the way the tables are set up, you’ve forced them into a tight corner, and it’s easy to pick them off once you lock the doors. How would you do it?” 

Sam glances around the room, seeing a bunch of unsuspecting, normal people out to enjoy a coffee or a first date, “Do what?”

Dean’s good mood, which Sam has _known_ was fake, falls like he’s taking off a mask. Underneath he’s too tense, too focused, and it makes people uncomfortable. Like a wolf amongst sheep.

“Forget it,” Dean says, “it was just a joke.”

“Did you mean ‘how would I kill everyone’?” Sam checks. 

“I was just kidding,” Dean snaps, and he turns and storms out. 

* * *

“I’m still having nightmares,” Sam says over breakfast. Lucifer hovers anxiously over his shoulder. Sam’s been thinking about this a lot, and with how fragile Sam still is, and how messed up Dean is too, he thinks they’re only a few months from having everything blow up in their faces if they don’t handle it right.

Dean pauses, mouth full of food because he’s still getting used to _not_ shoving it in his face and running. At the very least he’s sitting down to eat again. Sam can’t convince him to eat in a diner yet, so they’re sitting in the impala. Dean gets nervous when they’re in one place for too long. 

“Are they getting worse?” Dean asks. Sam can already see his thoughts racing to find a solution. 

Sam shakes his head, “No, they’re pretty standard. I think they’ll be around forever. But I… I was thinking. While I was with Amelia we would just… talk. There didn’t have to be a solution, but, if something was on her mind, or something was bugging me, we would just say it. And you and I spent all these years keeping secrets from each other, trying to protect each other, and it never did us any good.” 

“If you’re trying to get me to say purgatory made me weird, we’ve already established that,” Dean says. 

Sam shrugs, “You’ve barely talked about it. And you don’t have to-- but I know I got into a lot of trouble because I was dealing with stuff, and keeping you in the dark. And I don’t want to be like that anymore.”

“I’m not gonna sit and spill my guts so we can have a big cry fest,” Dean rolls his eyes. 

“Doesn’t have to be that,” Sam says, “I’m just letting you know. I want to change. So, you can ask me anything, or if anything comes up, I’ll tell you. That’s what I want for us.”

Dean almost laughs, and he squints at Sam, “When did you get so soft?” 

Soft, that’s a Dad word. And an insult. Dad never wanted them to be soft. If there was an issue, they needed to figure out how to handle it. Why waste time wallowing, when you could take action? That’s the Winchester way. 

Sam says, “Dad’s long gone,” and Dean can’t look at Sam as he says that, because it’s been like five years now, and while it still feels like Dad’s looming over them, it also feels that maybe, just maybe, they’re far enough away that they can escape him, “and his way isn’t working for us. So, I figured maybe it’s time for something new.”

“Lisa liked to talk shit out,” Dean remarks, “I guess it works for some people.”

“So, let’s try it,” Sam says.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, but it’s not an outright dismissal. 

* * *

They have access to the bunker, but they choose to stay at Bobby's in between hunts. The bunker is the place they stumbled upon, unleashed some demon who they haven't seen or heard from yet (which means this Abaddon is going to be a _bitch_ to deal with when she finally rears her head) and discovered Henry Watson and the weird secret organization of hunters from the past. The bunker is a place to retreat to, was their safe house when the leviathans compromised Bobby’s place, but it's not home like Bobby's is. 

After the insanity of the last few years, it's nice to have some moments of quiet. Dean and Bobby get too invested in competitive baking shows. Sam is forced to eat an illegal amount of weird sugary trial batches, and worse, forced to judge which one is 'better'. The three of them drink too much shitty beer. They help Bobby with his physio, and discover on the way that both Sam and Dean should probably stretch more, as Dean can't even touch his toes on a good day. They drink more shitty beer, and Sam decides there _has_ to be a better alternative because he's too young for hangovers this awful and if he doesn’t find something else, he’s not going to be able to fit into his jeans. 

The first time Sam floats the idea of a hard soda drink, Dean laughs so hard that he ends up on the floor. It's the first time he's really laughed in a while now. 

* * *

Cas shows up. Alive. It almost seems too good to be true, but Sam’s more distracted by the relief Dean projects over it. Cas stays with them for a short time, and then pops in and out. There’s stuff going on with heaven, but Sam’s had more than enough of angels. Dean seems to settle back into something more like normal, like he can let go of Purgatory without letting go of Cas now. 

* * *

Sam wakes up one night at Bobby’s, mouth dry, and wanders downstairs for a glass of water. He woke up to an empty room, though Dean had been sleeping on his floor earlier, but Dean’s finally started sleeping in his own bed sometimes, so maybe he’s trying to sleep in his room while they’re somewhere safe and familiar.

Lucifer meets Sam in the kitchen, holds a finger to his lips and nods towards the living room. There’s a light on, and Sam assumes Dean couldn’t sleep and got up to watch tv or something. Sam peeks in to see Dean curled up on the couch, which can’t be comfortable because he’s too tall for it, on his back with his legs over the armrest and with his head in Castiel’s lap. Cas is reading a book with one hand, the other resting lightly on Dean’s shoulder. It’s a casual position, like they’ve done this a lot. 

As soon as Sam spots him, Cas looks up. He doesn’t look surprised, or embarrassed to be caught practically cuddling with Dean. 

A few things click into place for Sam. Angels don’t sleep, and Dean spent a year in Cas’ company fighting to get out of Purgatory. Cas probably kept watch when Dean needed to rest. No wonder Dean hasn’t felt safe without someone being nearby, and no wonder he freaked out every time Sam left him alone while he was sleeping. 

“All good?” Sam checks, just in case. 

Cas glances down at Dean, then looks back up at Sam. 

“All is… good,” he says, unsure at the phrasing. 

Sam’s too tired to deal with anything more, especially Cas’ weirdness, so he gets his water and heads back upstairs. 

Lucifer’s laying out on the bed, happy for the space since Dean won’t be joining them. Tonight he’s wearing Sam’s own face. 

“I’ll watch over you,” he promises. 

“Too many people watching over me,” Sam mutters, and he’s alone so he can talk back without getting worried looks, “and deciding what’s best for me.”

Lucifer finds it amusing, because it’s true. 

“You know what they say about too many cooks,” he says as Sam drops onto the bed. 

Sam doesn’t protest the casual touch, the fingers in his hair. Because it’s not real, and there’s no point in arguing with a hallucination. 

“It’s my life now,” Sam reminds Lucifer.

It is, at least until God comes back and gets mad that Sam ruined his grand plan. But God’s so apathetic about everything, that Sam wonders if God’s just forgotten about them. Or doesn’t care. 

Sam was born to be antithesis of all that is good and divine in the world, and God got bored with him. How pathetic. How infuriating. 

“I’m in control of my life,” Sam assures himself.

Lucifer hums in agreement, “And what are we going to do with it?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for joining me on today's installment! 
> 
> I realized, as I had to start breaking this story into pieces, that I did not write it with chapters in mind, and so rather the story is more of "an experience" as a whole. A whole that will slowly be revealed, lmao. 
> 
> But we finally get to dig into the cool magics! Hope y'all like lots of metaphors and similes!!

“I miss it. Kind of,” Dean says quietly. They’re driving, and it’s safe to talk because Dean can focus on the road and Sam can not look at him, to make it feel less aggressive. When they were kids the best time to say things that might make Dad angry were when they were on the road, because he could yell all he wanted, but he had keep his attention on diving.

“Purgatory?” Sam asks carefully. He makes sure to look out his window, away from Dean. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “it was… it was easy. It was quiet. No second-guessing, no hesitation. It was just instinct— kill or be killed.” 

“Sounds terrifying,” Sam remarks. It’s a neutral tone. No judgement, nothing for Dean to rub against and turn this into a fight. 

Dean huffs a quiet laugh, “I was— it messes with your head a bit, makes you wired to fight. But it took away all the complications. And, fuck, the real world is so complicated.”

Sam can relate to that. Sometimes the real world still overwhelms him. 

“Everything is so loud,” Sam agrees, and dares to open up, “and people are so… soft.”

He should probably elaborate more. Sam thinks people are like sheep. They are so… basic, and ignorant, in their understanding of the world. They think they know good and evil, right and wrong. The world is so complicated for mundane reasons, when none of these little things matter. And at the same time, it’s all the little things that matter most. Toy soldiers in an ashtray. Lego blocks in the vents. A second-hand car is one of the most important objects in the universe.

Sam can remember the feeling of demon blood in his veins. Of walking through the world and knowing he was the most powerful creature present. And knowing the kind of devastation he could bring if he so willed.

Sometimes he wanted to.

It only got worse after Lucifer got under his skin. Because then he experienced _true_ power.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “sometimes I want to kill everyone, just because I can. It freaks me out.”

“I’m glad you haven’t,” Sam says, and he turns to glace at Dean’s surprised face before he jokes, “that’d be complicated.” 

Dean rolls his eyes, “That’s not what you should say when someone tells you they’re fucked up like this.” 

“But you haven’t done it,” Sam reminds him, “because you’re not going to.” 

“No,” Dean agrees, “I know where the line is.”

Dean always knows where the line is. It’s one of his most reliable traits. 

* * *

"I don't want to hunt monsters," Sam announces after an unsettling encounter with a rougaru. He was too far gone to save, but that didn’t stop Sam from feeling sick about killing him, or stop Lucifer from screaming for Sam to stop Dean, because there’s too many similarities between Sam’s situation and the rougaru’s. Didn’t stop Dean from getting the killing done.

The bar smells heavy with cigarette smoke, despite how most places don’t let people smoke indoors anymore. They’re far enough into the country that this bar never stopped being a _real_ bar. Sam finds the smell comforting, truth be told. Most of his childhood was spent wasting time or doing his homework in bars like this while Dad did research. 

Dean pauses, processing, "You're retiring?"

Sam shakes his head, "No. I want to hunt ghosts. And ghouls. But not things that can choose, that were forced to be wrong. And I mean, if they're hurting people, then, yeah, we should hunt them—"

" _If_ they're hurting people?" Dean echoes, and scoffs. He shoves too many fries in his mouth and continues talking, "they're monsters. Of course they’re hurting people." 

"Don't you think it's messed up that people get turned into vampires, or they don’t even know they have the rougaru gene, and then we kill them on sight?" Sam asks, “like… they don’t even get a chance.” 

Dean shrugs, "I dunno. When I almost got turned, I was pretty gung-ho about eating people."

Sam’s aware that Dean’s not pointing out the fact that he _didn’t_ eat anyone, likely because Dean considers himself in some sort of ‘other’ category compared to most people. 

"But they didn't have a choice," Sam points out, “and maybe they don’t even _know_ they could have the choice to not eat people.”

"It sucks," Dean agrees, "but they're hungry, they gotta eat—"

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "so why do they have to eat people? Why not animals? Or, or, donated blood? Why do they _have_ to kill people?" 

"Because they're monsters!" Dean says, clearly not getting it. 

"Because they were made to," Sam points out, "because the same guy that let monkeys evolve into us also decided to make all of these monsters and he's okay that they don't get any free will because they're evil monsters. That he made that way on purpose!"

Dean frowns, thinking, "so you don't want to hunt monsters because… it's unfair?"

"Because they're like me," Sam says, and he's looks down at his hands, "because I'm like a monster. I can't— it’s too hypocritical."

"You're not a monster," Dean says immediately.

"I was made to be one," Sam reminds him, "God intended for me to want to say yes to Lucifer. Dad wanted to kill me because I'm meant to be evil."

"You're not!" Dean almost shouts. They both lower their heads and pick at their food in case any of the guys playing pool or nursing their beers at the bar top overheard. While an old school bar like this is comforting to Sam’s nostalgia, it’s also a place where he and Dean stick out as outsiders passing through.

Sam shrugs, "I just… I can't hunt monsters if they have a choice to not hurt people. And I think it's fucked that some of them have no choice at all.'

"Yeah," Dean agrees after a moment, "sure, okay. We stick to ghosts or the things that can't be saved.”

Sam’s feels a complicated mix of emotions, because he’s not sure if Dean realizes that Sam fits in that second category.

* * *

Sam wakes up in a cold sweat. Clinging to him like fog are the images of a terrified woman sprinting down an alley. There was a neon sign— he remembers the way it lit up her skin as something— some creature— chased her. He remembers her terror, felt it like it was his own. The kind of fear that grabs you by the throat and keeps you from making any sound. 

“Sam?” Castiel asks. 

Sam spooks, nearly leaping out of his bed. The motel curtains don’t do a good job of blocking the streetlight outside, and so Sam can see Cas pretty easily where he’s perched in a chair. 

“Hey, shit, uh— have you been here all night?” Sam asks. His skin feels like it’s been stretched out, his body is tight. He needs to get up and walk it off. 

“I arrived and you both were resting. I thought I would wait,” Cas says. Sam thinks that sort of comment would go with a shrug, but Cas stays poised like he’s ready to move at any second. He always gives the impression of someone ready to strike, and it’s part of what makes him so unsettling to be around. The fact that Sam’s been raised to be paranoid doesn’t help. 

Sam finds his jeans where he folded them at the end of his bed, and tugs them on. He pretends that he doesn’t know that Cas is staring at him because Cas doesn’t understand things like shame or privacy. Dean’s silently sleeping in the other bed, on top of the blankets, arms crossed like he always does when they’re on a hunt these days. It’s nice to see he’s actually on the bed, and not on the floor as has been his norm lately.

“You don’t have to stay,” Sam reminds Castiel, “like… if you want to go do something, I can call when we wake up.” 

It’s less a kindness and more of a ‘Sam can’t think of anything more uncomfortable than having Cas stare at him all night’. Even if he hadn’t had a nightmare, he wouldn’t be able to sleep after this. Helpful or not, Cas is creepy. 

“Where are you going?” Cas asks. 

“Just for a walk,” and he doesn’t want to explain himself, so he doesn’t say anything more. Out of habit he tucks his gun into the back of his jeans, and slips a knife into his pocket. Can never be too careful. 

Sam doesn’t invite Cas, and so Cas doesn’t tag along with him. Sam feels only mildly guilty for leaving Dean to be stared at, but then he’s outside in the night and walking with purpose. 

The details of his dream are hazy, and dissipate if he thinks on them too strongly. But he can’t shake the feeling— and he’s making a turn before he really knows where he’s going, that he _does_ remember seeing a street sign, and that it wasn’t too far away— and now Sam’s picking up pace.

Because he’s done this dance before. He’s seen things before they happened, or as they happened. But that was years ago— that was something entirely different, and he can’t be having visions again because he hasn’t touched demon blood in years, he’s been cleansed of Azazel’s dark gift and so he _can’t_ and—

Sam rounds the corner, and in the dark he spies the flickering neon light. Just as he saw it. This is so close to the motel; he must have dreamed it up after seeing it in passing. There’s no way this is—

A woman comes sprinting around the corner, terrified into silence. Sam can see the fear in her eyes from here. And right behind her, half-shadow itself, comes the ghoul they’ve been hunting.

Sam draws his gun and charges in. 

* * *

Sam doesn’t bring it up. It was a one-off, it can’t have been real. So there’s no need to worry about it. Cas doesn’t notice anything weird about him, or doesn’t say it, so Sam can’t be turning evil again, right? Sam doesn’t feel evil, but, he didn’t really feel evil the first time either. In any case, he knows where the line is, so he’d know if he crossed it. 

"Do you know where the line is?" Lucifer asks idly. He's wearing the face Sam met him in— the older male vessel with the sad eyes. 

Dean's in the room, so Sam doesn't answer him with words. 

* * *

Now that Sam thinks about it, he’d dreamt about Dean returning from _somewhere_ only a few days before Dean did show up out of Purgatory. Sam had dismissed it, because he’d had so many nightmares about what happened to Dean. What was one more? 

He’d never put it together that he’d dreamed of Dean wearing the same clothes that he was wearing when Sam reunited with him.

* * *

His next _thing_ is a few weeks later. They’ve investigating a haunting, classic poltergeist shit, and it’s _almost_ fun because ghosts are so by-the-book and dumb with only like 5 tricks they can do, that they can’t set up elaborate and twisted shit like demons or angels can. But they’re also annoying as hell because the five tricks they have up their sleeve? Suck ass. 

They torched the body, but then found out it was the _wrong_ body because it isn’t the wife haunting the place, it’s her _handmaid_ who was also probably a heartbroken lover, hence the enraged haunting. And she sure loves throwing things. 

“Am I crazy or does this bitch have really good aim?” Dean asks from their protective crouch in a salt circle. 

“Yeah, let’s recruit her for the major league,” Sam snaps, and he’s got blood in his eye from where she clocked him with a teacup to the face. He’s pretty sure he can still feel pieces of fine china in his skin. 

“What if we just torch the house?” Dean wonders, “if her bones are in here, then we’re good, and if no house, she can’t haunt— shit!” 

He ducks, but not fast enough, and the heavy book that came hurtling at them strikes Dean in the side. 

“Yeah, real funny!” Dean shouts. 

She flickers into a corporeal form, stalking around the edge of the salt circle they’ve drawn. Her form isn’t quite human, it’s distorted in ways Sam can’t describe. She’s old, she’s powerful, and she’s lost her humanity. If he wasn’t so pissed about getting pelted with shit, he’d almost be impressed. 

Even though she doesn’t have eyes, Sam recognizes the second she looks at him, and they lock gazes. 

And _instantly_ Sam is both here, and elsewhere, and he sees past and present running simultaneously, feels the love and loss and the power of her heartache and rage, falls in love with the wife through her, and sees their secret vows to one another— “together, _forever_ ” “we can’t be happy in life, but we can find peace in eternity, you and I”— under the big tree out back, and knows where she put the ring when it was too painful to wear it and be reminded of everything she’d lost. 

Sam is himself again, and he’s crying heavy tears down his face. The ghost has stopped, like a freeze-frame, nothing about her moves. 

“What the hell?” Dean asks, and he points his gun at her. They've never seen a ghost act like this.

“There’s— I know what she’s haunting,” Sam says, and he says to her, hoping that maybe this means that there is some shred of her human self left under all those layers of pain, “I’ll find the ring, and I’ll take it to her grave. You’ll be together.” 

And Sam not only hears, but he _feels_ her sigh of relief. Then she’s gone, like dust on the wind. 

* * *

It isn’t long after that encounter that he and Dean end up talking about it. 

“I think my powers are coming back,” Sam announces. They’re driving at night, on their way home to the bunker. It’s kind of weird to have a home base that isn’t Bobby’s, and the two of them are still uncomfortable _returning_ somewhere. 

He braces for the inevitable fight, but Sam doesn’t want to keep secrets anymore. Lucifer is his reflection when Sam glances at the window. 

“You _think_?” Dean asks, and his grip on the steering wheel tightens, “how could they be ‘coming back’? I thought they were gone?”

“So did I!” Sam insists, “I don’t— I don’t know. I had a vision—”

“You’re having visions? For how long?” Dean demands. 

“Barely,” Sam says, “it was— that time I caught the monster in the act outside the motel. And then with the curveball ghost. It’s— it’s just little things. But it feels like back when my powers were first starting.” 

Dean’s silent, and Sam wonders which way this is gonna play out. Are they gonna yell? Are they gonna pretend this isn’t happening? Is Dean going to be repulsed by him, and avoid him for weeks? 

“Sam, is there— are you on demon blood?” Dean asks quietly. 

“No,” Sam says immediately, and he hates that Dean has to ask this of him, that that is going to haunt him forever, “no, I’m not. I’m clean.” 

“Then _how_ ,” Dean asks, “how could it be coming back?” 

“I don’t know,” Sam says, he really doesn’t, “maybe— maybe I’ve always had these powers? We’ve met a few true psychics, right? Maybe I’m like that?” 

Dean glances at him, and Sam nods in agreement. They don’t get lucky breaks. Good things don’t ‘just happen’ for Winchesters. 

Dean doesn’t say anything, but pulls out his phone and hits speed dial. 

“Hey, Cas, I need you to meet us at the bunker. You need to check Sam— _yes_ , this is important. Make time,” Dean says. 

* * *

“I sense… nothing amiss,” Castiel announces. 

Sam is relieved, and terrified at the same time. All he can smell is ozone from the spell or magic or whatever that Cas just used to ‘check’ him. 

“That can’t be right,” Dean says from his stance nearby, “there has to be _something_ , Cas.”

Castiel turns his whole body to look at Dean, in that stiff way angels have where they forget that a body is made up of a bunch of moving parts, “I assure you; I sense no demonic presence in Sam.” 

“So, what does that mean?” Sam asks. 

“It means we call Bobby,” Dean says. 

“But what if this is something natural to me?” Sam asks, “we just dealt with one of Dad’s friends—and he’s _crazy_ psychic and always has been! So maybe I actually was born with these powers, and I’m supposed to have them.”

Sam’s been _really_ trying to not think about that fact. That Dad knew someone who was psychic, and trusted him enough to call him a friend. But when Sam showed signs of being psychic? Keep him under control, or kill him.

Not for the first time, Sam wonders if his father could have ever actually loved him.

“It’s possible,” Castiel offers. Dean shoots him an offended look, like he’d expected Cas to back him up. 

“Sam’s third eye is opening again,” Castiel says, completely nonchalant like it’s a normal thing to say. 

Dean pauses, phone in hand, “What the hell does that mean?” 

“It wasn’t open before,” Castiel says, and then pauses, “well, it _was_ open before, when we first met.”

“Back when I was, uh, off the rails?” Sam guesses. 

“It’s been closed since. Perhaps exposure to Lucifer’s grace reopened it,” Cas says, and he leans forwards to squint at Sam, “I’m not an expert on humans, so I can’t know for sure. But it is opening.” 

Sam feels like he should, what? Cover himself? Where the hell is a third eye?

“So how do we close it?” Dean asks, “do we get a— a magical eyepatch? Poke it? What?” 

“Sam can be taught to control it,” Castiel says. 

“Then teach!” Dean says, gesturing at Sam. 

“Me?” Castiel _should_ look surprised, but again, forgets to give himself expressions. Instead he has his usual expression: generally exasperated and tired of everyone’s shit, “I am an angel. Not a human. I can’t teach a human—”

“So we find someone who can. There have to be more out there,” Sam says, “we’ll find someone, and they can train me to control—”

“Not train,” Dean cuts him off, “no training. We are closing that damn thing, and we are leaving it behind us.” 

Sam hesitates, “But it… it’s been helpful. It was helpful before, too.” 

“No! Because this shit always goes screwy on us. We don't fuck around with this stuff. It's bad and we don't need it,” Dean says. 

It’s bad, because everything Sam touches is bad. Even when it should be helpful. Sam stopped Lucifer stopped God’s grand plan. When does he finally get to live a life where he can be a good person? Where good things can happen for him?

“Now you sound like Dad,” Sam snaps. 

Dean doesn’t have a fast retort for that, which means he’s pissed. As he should be. Sam really hit him below the belt with that one. 

“Dad was so anti-everything,” Sam continues, and the betrayal of knowing that Dad wanted him dead for this still sits heavy in Sam’s stomach, “but we know he wasn’t right about that.”

Case in point, Castiel, the closest thing both Sam and Dean can call a friend, sits back and watches the two of them bicker like a cat watches a mouse. Cas is so far from human that _demons_ didn't even think things like him existed until a few years ago. Not to mention there's no way someone could spend five minutes with Cas and walk away not knowing the guy is not human in any shape or form. But here he is, Winchester-approved and accepted. 

“Your mojo stuff _was_ helpful,” Dean gives Sam, speaking slowly, “but it was a slippery slope. And we’re smart enough not to go that way again.” 

It’s the ‘we’ coding, like Sam and Dean are a team, even though Dean’s deciding things. It’s how Dad talked to them. Sam wonders if Dean can hear himself.

Two can play at that game.

“Or maybe this is a second chance,” Sam says, “what if _we_ do it right this time?” 

It speaks wonders to everything they’ve gone through that Dean doesn’t shut him down right now. Sam even expects him to. Just a few years ago and they wouldn’t have been able to have this conversation at all. Any time Sam asserted himself he was quickly shut down, because that’s how Dad ran things. How Dean runs things.

“And what does ‘doing it right’ look like?” Dean asks.

Sam doesn’t know if Dean’s trying to talk, or if this is a trap. If Sam reveals he’s thought about this because he believes it, it could be contrasted to how Sam thought he and Ruby were doing the right thing too. Or maybe any idea Sam brings up Dean is going to tear down to prove how wrong Sam is.

He decides to assume Dean’s trying to change.

“I train,” Sam shrugs, “I don’t— I don’t know what I’m capable of. I know what I could do, when I was, uh, under the influence. And I don’t want to be there again. But I used to be able to kill demons and spare the hosts. I could sense when and where people were in danger, and we could save them before it was too late. If this thing can help us help people, then, I want to try.” 

“I don’t like it,” Dean admits. 

“It’s possible that Sam’s powers will limit themselves here,” Castiel offers, “I see many humans with varying degrees of awareness to the other senses. Sam may remain weak, and never become a threat.” 

Sam grimaces, “Thanks?” 

“I am just offering an opinion,” Castiel says, “this is… we have built a strange world based on ‘not normal’. Perhaps we should not be quick to dismiss this.”

It’s true. Their post-no-apocalypse world is still weird. Heaven and hell aren’t sure what to make of it, even the monsters of the world are only just starting to go back to normal. Everyone is finally accepting that it isn’t the end of times, and now everyone has to figure out if it’s business as usual or time for something new. What to do when it’s the end of the world, and then the sun keeps rising and life goes on?

Dean crosses his arms and looks down. He’s so heavy in thought that the world seems to wait for what he’s going to say.

Sam’s struck in the moment by how _mature_ his brother looks. They’re not dumb kids anymore, and Dean looks like the kind of man other men want to listen to. When did they grow up? 

Dean thinks on it for long enough that Sam thinks he’s gonna say no. And Sam and Cas wait patiently, because, holy shit, Sam realizes in the moment… Dean’s in charge here. Sure they can fight and argue and say they’re all equal players, but, when it comes down to it… Sam knows both he and Cas will side with Dean, because after all the times Sam has fucked up trying to do good, he has to trust that Dean knows where the line is. Wow. Does Dean know he’s in charge? Or will that give him a complex if Sam mentions it?

How does Sam feel with this? He fought Dad his whole life for trying to assert power over him. Is he doomed to repeat that with Dean? Dean was always so loyal to Dad, it would make sense for him to want to be like Dad—except for all the ways Dean has never been.

Dean clears his throat, keeping his arms crossed across his chest, “For the record, I think this is gonna go bad. And I’m reserving the right to hold that over you. But— if you think you can do good with your powers? If this is what you want? We’ll find someone to train you.” 

Sam feels speechless. Dean is trusting him with this. This isn’t a secret; this isn’t going to be something to be ashamed of. They’re going to use Sam’s weirdness for good. 

“Last time, sometimes the visions were painful, and I could never make them work when I wanted. Maybe training will just put me in control, so I don’t, I don’t know, get hurt or something,” Sam offers. 

Dean nods, accepting, “You learn to keep this shit under control. And you tell me if anything, _anything_ , weird happens.” 

“Of course,” Sam says. 

* * *

Turns out Real Psychics are hard to find, and the very few they do know, have no idea how to _train_ someone. Sam gets enough recommendations to meditate or let things happen naturally that he eventually starts looking up videos on ‘how to be psychic’ on the internet. 

The videos recommend meditation. 

“I could teach you,” Lucifer offers with a soft smile, “you’ve learned so much from me already.”

Because Lucifer is a projection of Sam’s mind, he _knows_ what Sam is thinking. He’s not the real Lucifer, not the one left behind in the cage. He’s a hallucination. Sam barely talks to him as it is, and the one thing he will _never_ do is say yes to him again, fake or not. 

“Are you _really_ set on this?” Dean asks while they’re looking at thrift store coffee machines. They’re officially moving into the bunker, and so, for the first time in their lives: they’re buying appliances. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. He had two visions last week during a Hunt. The first one had been so incoherent they hadn’t been able to do anything with it— it was all flashing lights and freezing cold and Sam trying to sew water together, whatever the hell that means— but the second had been coherent enough to work with. They were still too late to save the victim. If he’s going to have psychic powers, they should at least be _useful_. Maybe he should start trying to move shit with his mind. He did it once and it’s still one of the coolest things Sam thinks he’s ever done.

Dean picks up one coffee pot, and opens it to sniff inside, and decides to put it back on the shelf, “Well… what about Cas?” 

“Cas said he couldn’t teach a human,” Sam reminds him. 

Dean shrugs, “That was when we thought we could find a teacher. But at this point, isn’t any help useful?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “I guess.” 

“I sense a ‘but’,” Dean asks. 

“I know he’s done a lot, and he’s on the team, but like, he’s _weird_ ,” Sam says. 

Dean looks genuinely offended, “Weird? After all the guy has—”

“I know! I know!” Sam cuts him off, “Cas is good, I trust him, I do. And I know you like him, but him and I? We, uh, don’t have the same familiarity. He’s just...”

“He pulled me out of hell, Sam. And rebelled against heaven. The guy deserves a little slack,” Dean says.

“He’s really creepy, Dean,” Sam admits. 

Sam hasn’t brought this up considering how close Dean is with Cas. At first Sam thought Dean was ignoring it, but now he wonders if Dean even notices it. Dean doesn’t get skittish when Cas gets into his space, or when Cas stares at him or even with how Cas pops in and out like an intrusive thought. And it’s not even that Cas isn’t human, except that it is just that. Sam got along well with Ruby, despite how it all ended. But Ruby was interested in playing human, had been human once upon a time, even when little things would remind Sam that she was something _other_ inhabiting a human body. Castiel doesn’t even pretend. Half the time he’s like a puppet with the strings cut, or he’s functioning like a cartoon where they pulled a few frames out. All jerky movements and too slow to move, and then too fast. It’s unsettling. 

As for Dean’s ease with Cas, Sam figured it was a little bit of hero worship at first, with Cas saving Dean from Hell and all, and then after Purgatory they’ve been thick as thieves— Dean’s gone back to sleeping on his own without Sam for a little while, so Sam’s not sure if Cas still pops in to watch over him or not. Which, also, weird. But Sam doesn’t have a leg to stand on there, considering he also goes crawling to Dean when his nightmares get too bad. 

Sam mentioned Dean’s friendliness with Cas once to Bobby, who reminded Sam to think about how many real friends Dean has had, outside of the two of them. And, well, it finally made sense to Sam. Dean has a friend, and even though he’s crazy weird, Sam never wanted to get in the way of that. 

Doesn’t mean Sam likes the idea of spending a lot of time with Cas on his own. He might crawl out of his skin with the way Cas stares and refuses to blink. 

“He’s not creepy,” Dean scoffs, and reflects on it a moment before saying, “he’s a— it’s a work in progress. He’s not human, or used to acting like one.” 

“He’s been on earth for a few years now,” Sam reminds Dean, “and, hell, he was human for a little bit there. I think it’s him.” 

“What, you don’t like him?” Dean checks. 

Ah, Sam’s backed himself into a corner. Castiel did rescue him from hell as well, but also fucked it up and didn’t get Sam’s soul out. But, hey, he did try. And then helped get Sam’s soul back, but then also tore down the wall in Sam’s brain keeping him sane, and was willing to let Sam go crazy and die to keep Dean out of the way. Then again… he felt bad about it so he took on Sam’s crazy, so Sam only has nightmares and hallucinations _sometimes_. 

At this point, Sam figures he and Cas are on neutral ground. Cas is Dean’s friend; Sam is Dean’s brother. They work together, are of the opinion that humanity shouldn’t be wiped out in a huge battle between heaven and hell or eaten by leviathans, and that’s good enough for Sam. 

Now that he thinks about it… does Sam have any friends outside of Dean and Bobby? That are still alive? When did he become the one who needed to get a life? 

“Cas is fine,” Sam shrugs, “he just creeps me out.” 

Dean’s honestly _pouting_ and Sam laughs. 

“He’s a good guy,” Dean insists, “and he’s probably the best chance you’ve got at a teacher for this psycho crap.”

“Are you mad that I don’t like Cas?” Sam realizes. 

“I’m not mad!” Dean snaps. 

“I don’t _dis_ -like him,” Sam clarifies, “I just think, you know, you two share a,” and Sam deepens his voice to try and imitate Cas, “ _more profound bond_.”

Dean snatches the next coffee machine he can find and drops it in their cart.

“Shut up,” Dean grunts, and his ears are red, and he heads off towards the clothing racks.

* * *

In any case, Dean is right. Sam texts Cas that night, and leaves it at that. They have some rough back-and-forth of missing each other and Cas not knowing how to use a phone. To which, really dude, it’s been a few years of cellphones, how can he not know? But Cas finally agrees to give it a try. 

And that’s how Sam finds himself sitting on the floor across from Cas, legs crossed, because they’re fucking meditating. 

“I never needed to meditate before,” Sam points out, “and I got pretty strong.” 

“You were drinking demon blood to achieve a state of communion with the non-material world,” Cas reminds him, like they’re fighting.

Fair point. 

“I just don’t think meditation is going to help,” Sam says. 

“It won’t if you keep talking,” Cas growls. 

Other than being creepy, Sam always forgets how grouchy Cas is. It’s like he’s pissed off about everything. And to some extent Sam thinks that’s true. Cas thinks humans are gross, that the technology is difficult, that the world is a mistake and he misses being in heaven. But then Sam reminds himself that even with all that, this is still the same angel that rebelled and died to help him and Dean stop the apocalypse. So, somewhere under all the bitching, Cas probably cares. It’s just… really deep down. 

Sam goes quiet and breathes. He’s picked up yoga and, yes, even meditation, on and off throughout the years. Back in college it was great for destressing, and Jess liked it. Every so often there’s a stretch in his back that only cobra pose can get. In the mornings, after sleepless nights, Sam and Amelia would walk their dog through the park specifically to watch and make fun of the group meditation classes. Sam’s heard great things about meditation. Doesn’t mean he likes it. 

“What’s the point of this?” Sam asks when he doesn’t achieve perfect zen in thirty seconds. 

“The point is to quiet your thoughts, so you can feel the flow of the world around you. The one beyond your human senses. Once you can reliably access it, you should have better mastery of your powers,” Cas says. 

“Will that work?” Sam asks.

Cas groans like Sam’s asking ‘are we there yet?’ and glares at him, “I don’t know. I’m not human or a teacher.” 

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Okay, fine, let’s try it. Just— should I be like, I don’t know, focusing on something? My third eye or whatever?” and he gestures to his forehead as he does so. That’s where all the movies put weird psychic shit. And there’s a chakra point there, he thinks. 

“The eye isn’t a literal eye,” Cas sighs, and Sam knows he’s being called stupid without Cas having to say it, “it is… it’s a way of Seeing. Of interacting with the world.” 

“So if I’m zen, maybe I’ll be a better psychic?” Sam tries. 

“Maybe,” Cas agrees. He sounds like he has no clue. 

“Well how do you do it?” Sam asks. 

Now Cas actually _does_ roll his eyes, “I’m an angel. By my own nature I exist beyond the realm of human perception. It’s why I need a vessel to interact with you without killing you.” 

“Yeah, but, like, what’s it like?” Sam asks, “if you can explain it to me, maybe I can figure it out better?”

“What’s it like being human?” Cas retorts, and seems to catch on to his tone because he pauses and taps a finger on his thigh, “it is… bright, and limitless. Naturally angels are both physical, and lacking in physical qualities. Instead we would be closest to light, and sound.” 

“Oh! Like— like quantum physics?” Sam asks. Classes were so long ago he barely recalls this, “like— electrons are both a particle and a wavelength. They can be in two places at once. Are angels like that?” 

Cas tilts his head like a psychopath and stares at Sam the whole time with his dead, emotionless eyes, “Yes,” he finally says, “it’s not correct, but I suppose that is as close as you humans can understand just yet.” 

“Okay, so, if you’re light and sound,” Sam tries, because he really does think there might be something here, “then I shouldn’t be thinking about me as a physical thing— like hot and cold, or touch or taste, right?” 

“Your senses are so limited,” Cas sighs, “no. Those are the senses that restrain you to the physical world. What you are doing is looking _beyond_ that. It is… the flow of time, the energy of living things, the movement of the universe around you. When you use your powers, _that_ is what you are tapping into and manipulating.” 

Sam thinks this might be a lost cause, but he's reminded of looking _into_ that ghost a few weeks back, and seeing all of her sorrow and love and rage and reason for clinging to this world. That had been something new, like she’d been communicating with and through him, in ways he couldn’t explain or make sense of until it was over and he was himself again. 

Sam breathes out, lets his shoulders relax, and tries to feel… disconnected? Untethered? What is the right term for it? But he tries to step out of himself, to leave his body behind. Like having that ghost speak to him— he was past and present, simultaneously. A paradox that could only exist if he didn’t try to understand it. He tries to remember the almost-high of being on demon blood, how he felt like he was seeing the world through a new filter.

He opens his eyes, and _beholds_. 

The world is in and out of focus, almost like when he was a kid and would waste time crossing his eyes to make things look weird. Like opening his eyes underwater— he can understand the shapes of things, but they’re completely alien at the same time. He sees and then he Sees and then he’s blind to it again. Like the room is strung with threads, all connecting in infinite ways, in infinite combinations, for infinite reasons. And every thread doesn’t exist, is impossible to touch, even as they bracket him in. And Sam realizes the threads aren’t threads, they’re light, but that’s also untrue. They have no source, no end, and they’re moving and part of but distinct from everything at the same time. 

And in front of him is Castiel. Not the man, but the angel. He fills the room, not with a huge form, but with light that _is_ form that shifts and rolls like waves in the ocean, and with song so loud and magnificent that Sam catches every few notes like he’s witnessing something _massive_ swim under him in the depths. 

“Sam?” Cas calls, and for just an instant Sam’s dragged into reality, into seeing Cas as just a man sitting across from him, and he blinks, dissociates, and he Sees once more.

Cas’ form strains his eyes to look at, crouched around the human body like it’s a glove he uses to touch the mortal world. Sam’s reminded of the angler fish he’s seen in the documentaries he and Dean watch when they want to get creeped out, of luring fish in close with something they think is safe so the huge teeth can snatch them up. Cas has— heads, many, Sam can’t count them. He’s wreathed with metallic barbs in a crown around his heads. They’re so hot from where they’re embedded in his form that they glow with a ferocity Sam can barely look at. _A halo? Holy shit!_

And all of the eyes. Cas has wings of fire— ice? Water? Electricity and chaos, and just so many eyes. Hundreds of eyes, looking in all sorts of directions. Some seem humanoid, the rest don’t pretend to be. Sam knows they see things that he can’t, and beyond. 

The wings are wrapped around Cas’s form, like a sheer barrier between Sam and the holy force behind them. It’s still so bright to look at, that Sam’s eyes water.

And to top it all off, Cas is wrapped in stripes and bands of armor. All sorts of metal in sheets and wires in a bizarre combination that makes him look like he's half machine and half radiance and the metal is all lit up that it’s practically burning, like Cas is an inferno and a lightning storm and a nebula unto himself and it's fucking _awesome_. 

Sam comes back to the real world, in plain 3D with no extra D’s, and he’s dizzy. Even though he’s sitting, he sways in place. 

Castiel is staring at him, as per usual, and for the first time he looks surprised. 

“I think I Saw you,” Sam realizes. 

“You… you did. You peered into— and your eyes did not burn out,” Cas remarks, “impressive.” 

It’s the first time Cas has complimented Sam to his face, and Sam’s not expecting that. 

But also, “Wait— you thought my eyes might burn out? Why the hell was I trying to look then? Or you didn’t warn me?”

“I covered myself,” Cas scoffs, “besides, I didn’t think you would be capable of this kind of depth without demonic aid.” 

Oh, right. Cas thinks Sam’s powers are baby powers, and that Sam’s going to be weak. Or, at least, that’s what Cas said to appease Dean. 

“But if you can achieve the Sight so strongly,” Cas muses, “I might be able to teach you after all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean think they're well adjusted and can pass as normal, but also consider thrift/dollar stores, and gas stations, to be the primary places one needs to visit for things like groceries, furniture, clothing and appliances. There's probably a metaphor there for learning to invest in yourself as a form of self-love or maybe something about making up for their carbon footprint as they traverse in their gas guzzling classic. 
> 
> While this is a story about Sam finding his new identity/claiming an identity, this is also secretly a love letter to Cas and Sam's friendship as they do ~~weird~~ hot girl shit together!!
> 
> See you next Sunday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Thank you everyone for the kind words on the last chapter. I hope this wets your appetite for the week ;)
> 
> A reminder that I am using the version of Christianity that was made up for Spn, and even then we’re continuing to twist it for our own purposes. As such, some things are a teeny bit different, and maybe a tiny bit more logical. We’ll see!
> 
> It’s been said a few times, but a reminder that Sam doesn’t remember most of his time while his mental wall was crumbling (aka the majority of season 7). 
> 
> I’ve left some “footnotes” at the end of the chapter to share some of the thoughts that go into this story and how I’m building the magic in this ‘verse, as there’s a LOT of ideas I’m trying to fit in, but also the Winchester boys take things too casually and also don’t have the vocab or interest to really dig into things the way I want to infodump lmao.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Nothing noteworthy, and nothing we haven’t seen in the show. The boys swear a lot, it can’t be helped!

"I hurt you," Castiel says when he pops in for a training session, “and we have not spoken about that.”

"I was going to kill you," Sam reminds him. He's not sure what he was doing, squaring off against Cas like that, but he recalls that Cas had no qualms about calling his bluff. Not that Sam was bluffing. Without his soul? He was more than ready to kill Cas. In fact, Sam tried to kill just about everyone he cares about. 

Cas pauses at Sam’s comment. It's just the two of them, no Dean around for them to appease. Sometimes Sam thinks both of them put on appearances to keep Dean from worrying that they don’t like each other.

"We have some antagonistic history. Will that be an issue?" Cas wonders.

"Only if you make it one," Sam shrugs, "you broke me, but you fixed it."

Castiel gives Sam a curious side-eye. Cas does that, looks at people without moving his body at all, just slyly peeking at them with his eyes. It makes Sam think of something lurking, and trying not to be spotted before it pounces. And further reinforces the idea that Castiel is something within the human body he wears, that he forgets to move it around. 

"I fixed nothing," Cas says, "I simply removed the rawness of the trauma."

"Angels kind of exist outside of time. They never really stop feeling joy or pain, but pain becomes abstract the further they get from it," Lucifer clarifies for Sam, "he adjusted the sense of time in our memories, so it feels like we happened a long, long time ago."

Sam ignores him, "Well, it helped. And you saved my brother. So as far as I'm concerned, we're good."

Cas keeps looking at him with that side-eye, and then he clips forwards, like a movie reel where they cut some frames out, and now he's sitting on the floor. He does that when he's thinking too hard, and forgets to move like a person. The hair on the back of Sam's neck stands up. 

"If only we were his kind of weird," Lucifer sighs fondly. Sam huffs a laugh.

Cas looks up at him, curious. 

"Do you remember my brother? Lucifer?" he asks.

Sam doesn't look to where Lucifer is slowly circling Cas.

"Yeah," he admits. It’s kind of a dumb question, but he doesn’t want to pick a fight with Cas.

Cas nods, like this makes sense. 

"He once appealed to me," Castiel confesses, "that he and I were of the same cloth. That my rebelling, joining you and Dean against God's plan, made me just like him."

Lucifer laughs at this.

"He thinks he's like us?" Lucifer calls, glancing over his shoulder at Sam, “he has no idea of what we truly are.” 

"You're not like him," Sam assures Cas, and takes a seat across from Cas, "now show me what to do."

* * *

Cas has one warning: Sam is free to practice magic without Cas, and do whatever he wants, but he should be careful not to get over his head. Magic is alive and full of so many intricate rules and layers that Sam will never understand all of them, and one misstep could completely destroy Sam’s mind. And that’s the best case scenario.

“How do I know if I’ve gone too deep?” Sam asks. 

“You won’t,” Castiel says, “until it’s too late, most likely. And you’ll always think you can go deeper than you should. Magic is deceptive, and humans are… ambitious.”

“He was going to say prideful,” Lucifer whispers. Which of course Cas is trying to be polite. Pride was Lucifer’s sin, and by extension, Sam’s. Sam wonders if, since he failed God’s plan to ruin the world and himself, if the return of his powers is the new noose for him. Is he playing right into his own destruction, again? Does he have any choice but to keep learning, to keep growing, knowing that he’s cultivating his own death? His powers originally manifested to mark him as part of Azazel’s chosen, a bunch of kids who had their families slaughtered just to hide Sam in a bunch of red herrings. Azazel was always working to free Lucifer, to help make Sam ready to be his vessel. 

“Is there any way to come back?” Sam asks, and he thinks again about how magic feels a bit like diving into a deep lake, or down into the ocean. How Castiel feels like something unknown and terrifying at depths too far down for Sam to reach. 

“Tethers are good,” Cas muses, “to have something to bring you back.”

“How do you make one?” Sam asks. A lifeline, yeah, that’s smart. Now he’s thinking about cartoons where they’re wearing the old school diving suits with the air line attached to the surface to feed them oxygen. The line always ends up getting tangled or broken, so maybe that’s a bad analogy. 

“You need something to come back for,” Cas says, like it’s obvious, “ideally a living thing that would call you back. Another psychic would be best, as they can reach out and aid you in your return if you stray too far.” 

Obviously Sam doesn’t have another psychic around, hence why he’s learning from Cas. In fact, Sam doesn’t have a lot of people. One of the by-products of being the intended harbinger of the end of the world, and a hunter, is that most of his friends are dead. 

“What about Dean?” Sam checks, and hopes Dean is enough. Dean is all he has.

Cas considers this a moment, “Dean makes for a good anchor.”

“Do I need to do anything special to cement it? Is there a ritual or a spell?” Sam asks. 

Cas shakes his head, “Your bond to him should be sufficient. Dean does lack in preternatural senses, but he loves you enough that it shouldn't be a problem.” 

While that’s always been a foundation of Sam’s universe: Dean loves him and will protect him, it feels… strange, to hear it said so plainly. Like it’s not that amazing fact: that Dean _loves_ him, that averted the apocalypse and saved the world. 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, “okay. Dean can pull me back.”

“In theory,” Cas warns him, “it would be best if we never have to test that theory.” 

* * *

Sam lays awake at night with the assured notion that if he goes to sleep, he will wake up to Lucifer carving his eyeballs out. And that will only be the beginning. His heart won’t calm down, and he’s sweating. The bunker is warded, he reminds himself, and he and Dean are grown men who can spend a night in their own beds. It’s just nightmares, Sam tells himself. It’s not real, and he’s safe. 

An hour passes and Sam admits that he won’t be able to sleep on his own. He pulls himself out of bed, wraps his blanket around himself like he’s seven and playing star wars with Dean, and heads for Dean’s room. Lucifer follows.

It’s late enough that Sam doesn’t bother knocking. He regrets the little bit of ambient light from the hall that spills in, but thankfully Dean sleeps through. Dean’s sprawled on his bed, on his stomach with his limbs sprawled out like he wants to claim as much space as possible. There’s no room for Sam there. 

Sam comes up with a solution, and sits down with his back against the side of Dean’s bed. He’s going to have an awful ache in his neck, but this way he can lean his head onto Dean’s mattress and listen to his brother breathe. He times his breaths to Dean’s, tries to imagine that their hearts are beating in unison. Sam’s nightmares can’t find him here, because Dean is here, and Dean knows where the line is. Dean is his anchor. Dean is real. 

Lucifer sits beside him, quiet for once. 

_Dean is real, Dean is real, Dean is real_ , Sam reminds himself. 

* * *

Sam wakes a few hours later to Dean tugging him by the back of the shirt, “Get on the bed, weirdo.” 

* * *

_Burning_ , _watching, downing, biting, bleeding, healing. Burning, watching, downing, biting, bleeding, healing. Sunlight. Burning, watching, downing, biting, bleeding, healing. Ice. Burning, watching, downing, biting, bleeding, healing. Death._

Sam bolts upright as he wakes from his vision.

“What the fuck?” he hisses to himself, and reaches for his phone. He needs to write this down. What is there to write down? He’s had this vision before. Recurring visions are important, he knows this. 

He starts typing out words as fast as he can, trying to keep himself from attempting to rationalize them. Just write out what he can remember. His phone screen is so bright to his sleepy eyes that he has to squint at it. He types out the words by feel rather than by sight, which is so much harder on a smartphone than it would be on an older model. 

He flops back onto his bed, head still reeling. He’ll read his notes in the morning and decipher it then. For now he’s going back to sleep. He sits up to strip off his shirt— he must have sweat through it at some point. Ugh. Sam does _not_ remember Dad ever being this sweaty, but it’s an unfortunate trait that both he and Dean share. So, uh, thanks Mom. 

His phone buzzes. It’s Dean, who should be asleep because… Sam checks the clock. It’s before dawn. 

“What?” Sam grunts as a greeting.

“You tell me what?” Dean snaps. He’s so fucking cranky when he gets woken up. Sam rolls his eyes, “what the hell did you just send me? Are you having a stroke?”

Sam pulls his phone away from his ear, squints at it because it’s too bright still, and realizes that the note he made for himself was actually a text that he sent to Dean. Woops.

“I had a vision,” Sam explains. 

“Are people going to die if we don’t get up right now?” Dean groans. 

“You read it,” Sam mutters, “and tell me.” 

“I’m not fucking psychic,” Dean grumbles, “it’s too early for this—” 

“I’m going to sleep,” Sam decides, and doesn’t bother to listen for Dean’s response.

* * *

Sam and Castiel have regular sessions as often as Sam can organize. Most of the teaching is done off-hand, or on the fly. Cas mentions something, or explains something to Sam, and then Sam gives himself headaches trying to replicate it. He does practice his magic vision more. It comes in handy, even on hunts. Turns out most supernatural things leave a kind of tell, or a trail, that Sam can see sometimes. The only issue is that he has no way to read it because ghosts look like ghouls look like zombies look like wraiths, and the list goes on and on. 

When he describes it to Dean, and about being able to see past Cas’ vessel to the creature lurking within, Dean nods in understanding. 

“It’s kind of like when my deal was coming up,” he muses, “remember? I could see the demons faces in their hosts? And we figured it was because I was crossing the veil into being dead.”

That gives Sam pause, “I don’t think I’m _dying_.”

“No, but that’s what you’re looking into,” Dean guesses, “it’s the— I don’t know, ethereal? Astral? Another plane? Or whatever.” 

“I think that’s from a video game,” Sam remarks. 

“It is _not_ ,” Dean says. 

“I think you’re a nerd,” Sam accuses, and the conversation ends there because Dean tries to get Sam in a headlock and they end up wrestling on the floor. 

* * *

The first few times Sam practices with Cas he tries to time it for when Dean won't be around. Dean agreed to let Sam learn, but saying that is one thing and seeing Sam practicing his powers is another. 

They have a lifetime of being trained to stop or kill anything doing exactly what Sam is doing, and he wants to have better control of his powers before Dean gets too spooked and takes his agreement back. 

He loves Dean, and sees that Dean is trying to change, but Dean has always been too loyal to Dad’s memory to be truly okay with this. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and all that. 

* * *

“Do we need to retire?” Dean asks as they leave town. The bones are burned, the spirit is at rest. They’re going home to the bunker, which is weird enough to think that they have somewhere to call home now. 

“What?” Sam asks. 

“You’re still having nightmares,” Dean says, like Sam isn’t aware that his night terrors were bad enough they had to move motels in the middle of the hunt. 

“We spent like two weeks in the bunker before this job, maybe my brain felt weird about not being there,” Sam guesses. 

Dean’s quiet a moment, and Sam thinks he might let it drop, but then he says, “If we need to be done Sam, we’re done. That’s it.” 

“We’re helping people,” Sam argues. Besides, Sam isn’t sure if Dean—as he is right now, still Purgatory sharp—can handle putting down his weapons. Best to keep him pointed at the things that need killing, so that he doesn’t start wondering what he could go after. Or who.

Dean cuts him off, “It’s not worth it if it’s hurting you! If this is making you worse, then we’re out. We’ll get that avocado farm in Guatemala.”

“Avocado farm? What?” Sam laughs, “when did _Guatemala_ become our retirement plan?”

Dean pauses a moment, and must understand how weird he sounds just saying that out of nowhere, “Or we can, I don’t know, we’ll set up the bunker like the roadhouse maybe. Force Bobby into _actual_ retirement, and not whatever he and Garth have worked out. Besides, you’d be good at organizing that kind of shit.” 

“Have you been thinking about this a lot?” Sam realizes. 

Dean replies too quickly, “No.”

“Lying,” Lucifer growls, leaning over the seat from the back. He hates lies. 

“I’m okay,” Sam says, “I’ll be… not fine. That would be a lie. But I’ll be okay.” 

Why should they quit when their operation is working so well? Dean gets to hang out, doesn’t have to do all the reading and research that he hates. Sam spends hours in libraries, or online, pouring over sources and old texts and everything he’s always enjoyed about hunting. And then Dean goes in and kills things that need killing. Sam watches his back, but Dean’s a force to behold when he’s unleashed with a weapon. Sam hasn’t had to step in yet. 

And when it’s a ghost or a spirit? Sam can usually connect to them on a deeper level, to soothe them long enough to make it easier to burn their bones or find whatever is holding them to the world. Sam tries not to think about how ghosts need tethers to keep them here, like he needs Dean as his tether. 

They get the job done. They save people. The system is good for them. 

Dean glances over at him, looks a moment too long, before looking back to the open road. 

“It’s okay to be done,” Dean says quietly, “you’ve done enough.” 

Sam pretends he didn’t hear him. 

* * *

Sam figures out how to spot angel grace pretty quick. They leave— it’s kind of like ice, but fiery, and it glows, but it doesn't glow with light, like, it's not illuminating anything. It glows with sound, with a song Sam can never replicate or remember properly until he's listening to Castiel's grace sing it again. And not quite fingerprints, but anywhere that they work some mojo, or spend some time, they leave a little mark of grace, but not real grace, like, the _afterburn_ of grace. An echo of a sound. He makes Cas set up trails throughout the bunker, which leads to Dean accusing them of playing weird hide-and-seek. Sam gets used to noticing Cas’ grace-trail. Cas informs Sam that these are close enough to human fingerprints, that they’re unique to the angel, that if he focuses enough he could even identify Castiel’s grace from other angels. But it’s also likely that Sam’s Sight isn’t sensitive enough to discern the delicate differences in melody. 

* * *

Sam tries to use his Sight a lot more often. Once he gets the hang of it, it gets easier to slip into it without needing a while to get into the right headspace. There’s different layers to it, like how water gets colder the further down you go. Sam can See things at a surface level, but not in great detail, and the deeper he goes the less he sees of the physical and the more he Comprehends everything else. 

When he and Dean do rituals to summon restless spirits, Sam can See the weaves of the spell, can discern exactly how the magic is working, and often can point out where the ghost is going to show before it does appear because he can see the weaves of magic begin to form something more complex. Ritual spell work becomes one of Sam’s specialties, more than it was before, since reading from a book is basically a how-to guide in how to weave a spell. Spell books, as Cas explains, allow non-magical or intuitive creatures to access magic. He thinks they’re like training wheels, but agrees that it’s probably good for Sam to study them. 

Cas continues to warn Sam not to go too deep, especially alone. The human mind can only handle so much before it gets lost in the depths. 

So Sam practices using his Sight, and gets used to seeing all of Cas’ hundreds of eyes, and even gets used to the way his true form— or at least what Sam can perceive of it— fills every space they’re in with no distinct size. How had Jimmy Novak described it once? Like being chained to a comet. Castiel is a star pretending it can fold itself into the shape of a man. 

It does make Cas a little easier to read. Cas is surprisingly emotive with his wings— or what Sam thinks are wings— and the way his hundreds of eyes blink or his multiple heads move around and the creak of his armor. Sometimes Sam thinks he can hear Cas’ true form speaking when his human body isn’t. 

Sam can touch the tracks Cas leaves, and feels sparks like he’s touching metal after building up a static charge. Sometimes he catches what he thinks is a faint scent, or the impression that he has a memory corresponding to an emotion, but he can never put his finger on it. 

Sam is pretty proud of how quickly he can drop into his magic-vision. He still can’t do it and do things like drive, or run and shoot, but he can move around the bunker while Seeing the world. It’s pretty cool. 

* * *

Sam wonders if seeing Castiel’s true form will set off his already fucked up brain. It was angels, in a space to be freed of their vessels, that tortured him for so long down in the pit. Or rather, one angel. But when Sam tries to remember the cage, Lucifer pops up and offers to tell him about it. Sam doesn’t want to listen, so, he doesn’t remember the cage very well at all. 

But as it stands, Sam knows he’s looking at Castiel because he sees Castiel in the bunker. And he never mistakes seeing an angel's form for thinking he’s back in hell. Because while Sam is familiar with Castiel’s form, he is _intimately_ aware of Lucifer’s form. There is no mistaking Lucifer for Castiel, ever. 

* * *

They’re back at the thrift store, because the bunker is stocked, but not with modern comforts, and the coffee machine that they got last time crapped out already. Sam suggested maybe buying one completely new, and Dean laughed at him because _why_ would they pay more than $10 for anything? 

Cas tagged along this time, and Dean is determined to get Cas some clothes other than the same ones he’s been wearing for the last… what? Five? Six? Years. Crazy that they’ve been dealing with angels that long. Crazy that it’s been several _years_ now since the end of the world that wasn’t. 

Castiel was originally coming by to help Sam, because while Sam can See lots of the magical weaves just fine, his actual spell work is shit. He thinks he’s doing fine—it’s like stitching open wounds, and he’s done enough of that on himself and Dean to be passable—but Cas says he’s sloppy in a tone that implies _embarrassing_. 

So Sam is perusing the used denim, trying to find a few pairs that don’t look too worn out in all the places that matter, and also ones that don’t have any weird designs on them. Which is surprisingly difficult in his very limited inseam selection. And while he’s wondering if perhaps the influx of sparkling butt pockets are because these are women’s jeans that ended up sorted into the wrong area—which is something Sam is hyper aware of because it hasn’t happened to _him_ yet, but it’s happened to Dean twice now, and Sam can’t afford that kind of mistake with how badly he made fun of Dean for it— he happens to notice the basket of miscellaneous items on top of the clothing rack. They must have been dropped there by some mom or grandma who was perusing here for some man in their life, because Sam can’t imagine any other reason to see knitting needles in the men’s jeans. Sam has never been around knitting needles until Bobby showed off his new pair, saying that Jody was teaching him because it was good for his physio. Forces his brain to focus and think, and gets the fine control back into his hands. 

It was a good enough reason that Dean and Sam weren’t allowed to make fun of him for knitting. And also means they’ll have to be happy by the time Bobby graduates to making like, socks or whatever people make when they’re not making lumpy knitted squares. 

Maybe it’s stupid—magic isn’t _actually_ needlework, it isn’t _actually_ like sewing threads into something new. But that’s what the impression of it is like, is the only way that Sam can translate the feeling. And up until now in his life, Sam’s mostly sewed up skin, and patched his clothes where he can. 

Sam glances around, spies Dean holding up a shirt to Cas to measure it against his shoulders while Cas frowns at it. Dean’s not looking at Sam. Sam quietly slips the needles into his jacket. No one needs to know.

* * *

Dean was feeling on edge today, and Sam could feel a sleepless night coming on with the potential for night terrors, so they cut their losses and decided to share Sam’s bed tonight. Share is a generous word. They’re both grown men, and sure the bed is big enough for two adults, but Dean is a cuddler and Sam steals blankets. There’s no scenario where they don’t wake up all over each other and Dean has awful morning breath. 

Sam dozes for a while, and fakes being asleep long enough that he almost tricks himself. He loses some time, because he wakes up to the sound of wings. 

“Hey,” Sam croaks at the vague shape of a big bulky tan coat. Sam sits up enough to confirm that Dean isn’t on the bed, and at some point must have moved to the floor because he’s still weird about beds being too soft and _likes_ how hard and cold the floor is. 

“He wasn’t in his room,” Cas says, staring down at Dean like he’s learning something new. 

Sam scrubs his hands down his face, “Yeah, well, I’m probably not gonna sleep, if you want to,” and Sam gestures at his bed as he realizes how weird his life is. He’s offering to let a legitimate angel of the lord sit in his bed so he can stare at Sam’s brother all night, because Dean likes to sleep on the floor while people watch over him.

Not for the first time, Sam wonders if there’s any kind of therapy out there for them that could work. Certainly nothing they can afford, that’s for sure. 

“Nightmares?” Cas asks, and Sam can see the slight tilt of his head in the dark. 

Sam shrugs, and he’s almost sure Cas can see him just fine, “Probably. But, just not sleeping tonight. I’m gonna go make tea.” 

More often than not Sam’s sleepless nights aren’t due to night terrors. And he’s trying to keep it that way. He avoids casework until 5am, after which the sun is rising and he can consider it morning. So in the dead of night he drinks tea and does sudoku, or crosswords, or picks away at a puzzle they found in one of the bunker’s abandoned rooms, or anything else to keep his brain busy and away from things that might set him off. 

Castiel follows Sam to the kitchen, hovers creepily in the doorway as he watches Sam put the kettle on the stove and wait for it to boil. 

“Want one?” Sam asks. 

Cas stares at him. 

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” Sam decides. 

Cas waves his hand and the kettle immediately boils. Sam jumps at the sound, his process hastily advanced, and scrambles to get a mug and find his assorted collection of teas stolen from motels across the country. 

“You don’t have to keep me company,” Sam offers to Cas, not just because Cas is creepy, “you can go… watch… over Dean.”

Sam grimaces as he says it. It’s weird, their sleeping arrangements, both he and Dean know it. But they don’t talk about it, because it’s _super_ weird when you say it out loud. 

“I can keep you company,” Cas offers, “that is what Dean would do, correct?” 

He’s getting pity-company from an angel. Yikes. 

“Sure,” Sam agrees, and now Cas follows Sam to the den. It’s a little cozier than the kitchen or the main library, with big reclining chairs that both Dean and Sam have slept in at least once already. Tobacco smoke, though stale, lingers in the fabric. This was probably where the original Men of Letters retired to, after a hard days work, and smoked their pipes and drank some spirits. Sam feels weirdly fond of the room. All the older hunters he’s ever met tend to have this kind of old, tobacco smell. It smells like the bars he spent time in, like the seats of the impala no matter how many times they cleaned them. Like dads leather jacket. 

If Sam wanted to dig into it more, the room makes him feel a bit like a kid. Like the adults will be back soon, and they’ll have the answers to questions Sam doesn’t have to worry about right now. 

Sam grabs one of the mind teaser books he’s collected from gas stations across the country off the coffee table, and sits down in one of the big arm chairs. Castiel quietly follows, now determined to watch over Sam tonight apparently. 

“You can grab a crossword if you want,” Sam offers. Cas does just that before he sits down on a vacant chair beside Sam. 

“What is the point of this?” Cas asks after flipping through a few pages. 

“Use the clues to figure out the word, and fill in the squares,” Sam says, and he wouldn’t mind some alone time so he adds, “Dean hates these.” 

Castiel tends to skew towards only trying human things that Dean approves of, so maybe he’ll decide to go stare at Dean all night. 

He doesn’t take the bait. They crossword in quiet. Cas flies through his answers, and Sam even cheats and asks one of the hard ones he wasn’t getting. Cas knows it on the first try. 

Until, “What does… a pig diva?” Cas growls, confused. Sam glances up. 

“Read it?” he asks. 

Cas gives it the same intense focus he gives everything, which makes it kind of funny as he reads, “’Her boyfriend thinks ‘it’s not easy being green’. What martial art is this piggy diva a master of?’,” and Cas looks up at Sam like Sam personally offended him, “what does that mean?” 

“You don’t know the muppets?” Sam realizes.

Cas must realize this is a pop culture thing, because he sighs and rolls his eyes so hard that Sam thinks he might sprain something.

“It’s Miss Piggy,” Sam says, “she’s Kermit’s, uh, girlfriend? I think? they might be married by now. But she does kung-fu, or maybe it’s karate. Depends on the squares they give you.” 

“That’s a rude name,” Cas comments, but he writes down Sam’s answer. 

“Well, she _is_ a pig. A pig puppet. Um. There’s movies, they’re pretty funny. Dean and I used to watch them with Dad when they were on TV,” Sam says. 

Cas looks at Sam like he’s convinced Sam is lying to him, but hates the conversation enough that he doesn’t want to ask anything more. 

The rest of the night passes easier. Cas asks about pop culture things; Sam asks about the words he doesn’t know yet. It’s like an information trade-off. 

Cas also keeps Sam’s tea warm. That’s nice of him. 

* * *

Castiel has no experience with divination or prophecy. Sam’s visions are something he has to learn on his own, and without knowing how to do that, Sam practices everything else Cas can show him and hopes that helps. 

There is… well, it's a language barrier but it's not language between them. Castiel and Sam are, fundamentally, _completely_ different species. Castiel was Made To Be, whereas Sam's lineage can be traced back to when life was a bunch of single-celled organisms all out to eat each other, and Cas was just… _there_ for that too. But it means their connection to the, uh, the _ethereal_ is more than a little different. Sam learned some of this with Ruby, and she was a great teacher, but Sam weaves threads the same way he learned to mend clothes and stitch people together. He can see the complex weaves of threads that make up powers or actions that he isn't skilled enough to replicate yet, and he can intuit how he could try weaving each thin thread to get an effect. It requires precision and absolute focus and Sam feels limited by the fact that he can only hold so many threads in his hands at once, before the whole thing unravels. 

Whereas Castiel, well, Castiel _sings_ his weaves into being. Rather than treat the threads of the universe as physical, like Sam does, Castiel treats them as wavelengths to be manipulated and blended together. Songs grow increasingly complex depending on the intensity of the magic Cas is using, to the point that Sam knows he can't replicate all the tones and notes and rhythms, and maybe because the human body isn’t capable of making those noises. 

It makes things a little tricky to translate, and is part of why Sam has so much trouble learning. Cas is as patient as he can be, trying to sing slowly or strip his songs so Sam can observe the basics, but Castiel is best understood as a wavelength himself, so, of course his mastery of this shit is a million times better than Sam could ever dream of achieving. They approach magic just different enough that Sam can understand now why Cas insisted that he couldn't teach a human. 

Sam also discovers the remnants of his last teacher. It’s a little deeper, to See it properly, but his right arm is wrapped in a bizarre network of… coral? fungus? It’s like a whole network of living tubes and moving points of energy, like his arm is host to an entire ecosystem of things swimming around in a sea of magic. It seems to draw the light, creating the illusion of darkness around it. It also makes the moving dots stand out, like they’re bioluminescent fish darting to and fro. 

It’s the arm he uses for casting, has always used with his powers since they started almost ten years ago, as a guide to focus his energy through. Ruby taught him how to focus like that.

“It’s demonic,” Castiel confirms upon studying it, “demons cultivate ecosystems like this to focus and channel their energy. It can also be used to trace their lineage, as they will inherit pieces from their tutors.” 

Sam concentrates on it, feels Ruby’s hot aggression, her cool confidence and cunning ambition. _I was the best of those sons of bitches!_

Yeah, Sam muses, she was. He wonders at what point this started growing on him. When he met her? Or did it have to do with ingesting her blood? Did she choose to plant this in him? To name him her successor?

“I can burn it out,” Castiel offers, “but due to the strength of… of the demon who gave it to you, and the time it has had to integrate with you, it will be incredibly painful. It’s likely there will be side effects and a long period of recovery.” 

“Am I gonna turn into a demon?” Sam checks. 

Castiel shakes his head, “It requires much more intense energy to warp a human soul into a demon. This is more like a tool to be used to hone your powers, though it will have an effect on the outcome.”

“How?”

“Demons are aggressive,” Cas says, and Sam hears the unsaid _duh_ , “they like violence. Their powers specifically target cutting other creatures away from source, in order to inflict the same loneliness and isolation they feel.” 

Sam watches the small not-fish swim around his arm. Loneliness and isolation… and so they cultivate these living ecosystems within their own essence to ease their solitude, and share that with one another as a replacement for the relationships they can’t have. 

Lots of bad people become demons, but lots of good ones too. Is that fair? To subject them to this kind of torture for eternity? 

If this is demonic lineage, a marker for where he started and how far he’s come, then Sam wants to keep this. He has so little to show where he’s been. And for better or for worse, he learned a lot from Ruby. A history of witches, of pain and power. Is he the last of this line?

“Let’s leave it then,” Sam decides.

* * *

Hands down the coolest thing Cas shows Sam is when they start to _move_ things. It involves the threads Sam sees, the ones that aren’t actually there, that connect everything and nothing. Because every molecule and atom of the world is connected, is fundamentally the same, the world is like a blank slate to Act on. Cas shows him how to direct his thoughts, to push out beyond himself, and to Define things as Like and Unlike the rest, and once it has been Defined, Realized, Identified, it’s like cutting the threads of it, and Sam weaves new threads into it, made of Thought and Intention, making it into Something within _his_ domain, in his control. It's always easier to work on things already in existence, to manipulate the real into something similar. It's why only very powerful creatures create from nothing, and even then, most of them still work with materials around them. 

Cas makes it sound so easy, and it probably should be, but Sam gets a migraine every time he tries to Define a penny, and never gets to the point that he can Act on it. He keeps losing it into the background of the air around it, the table under it, and even to the grime on the penny itself. 

* * *

For one session Dean brings a bowl of popcorn to watch, and throws bits at Sam every time he thinks Sam looks constipated from focusing too hard. Sam attempts to strangle Dean a few times, and even asks Cas to take his brother _anywhere_ else— preferably drop him on a deserted island or something. 

* * *

Knitting is a _nightmare_ and the only reason Sam sticks with it is because Bobby, who is doing it to keep his brain active because he got _shot in the head_ , keeps sending Sam pictures of the shitty squares he’s making. If he can do it, then Sam can too. 

Dean finally catches Sam struggling at one point. Up until this second Sam had kept this as his best-kept secret.

Sam points one of the needles at Dean, “one word,” he warns. 

Dean pauses, weighs the pros and cons of teasing versus getting stabbed, and makes the smart move to keep walking. 

“Sure thing, grandma!” Dean shouts once he has a head start.

* * *

At one point Cas is showing Sam, once more, how to direct his thoughts. It’s like pushing smoke, and Sam can See it, as Castiel’s grace moves out from him to Act on the empty beer can sitting on the table. Cas lifts it easily, effortlessly, expelling the notes and tones of Like and Unlike from his own grace, from his own self, like a master puppeteer, and the empty can moves smoothly like it's held in an invisible hand. Sam impulsively pushes out with his thoughts, to use Cas’ grace as a guide for him to follow the pattern Cas used, to use the angelic tones to guide his spell weave and Define, and Sam feels the instant he touches a live note in Castiel's song because his whole world goes white. 

It’s electric, it’s explosions behind his eyes, it’s ice down the back of his shirt and fire burning him from within. It's a riptide, a whirlpool and he's being dragged down so fast the can't even gasp for air and the pressure in this head builds and builds and his eyes are going to pop right out of his skull and then he— 

he can’t see! 

He’s blind!

* * *

Sam has about thirty seconds of being incoherent, yelling, and assuming he’s just burned his eyes out of his skull, that he's dying, until Cas is able to calm him down and assure him that Sam wasn't prepared for the power of angelic grace, and just overwhelmed himself. 

Also, it didn't take thirty seconds; it had to have been a few minutes that he was out of it because Dean is here now, and he's pissed because apparently Sam's heart _stopped_ and Cas had to revive him.

Sam feels better to have Dean’s hands on him, to lean into his brother until his heart stops racing. Dean cleans the blood off his face— Sam won the lottery and bled from his eyes, ears mouth and nose. Lucifer makes a knees and toes joke and Sam's dizzy enough to laugh at it before he remembers that no one else can hear what he’s laughing at.

Cas heals any possible damage that might have happened, but Sam’s vision doesn’t return immediately. Sam overtaxed his brain, and needs a few days of recovery. 

Dean's mad about it, but it's Sam's fault. Cas has warned him a few times now to be careful with his powers, and Cas always tries to keep some distance between them. Sam was the one who decided to stick his finger in the socket. He's happy to be alive.

It turns out to be a helpful learning opportunity, because while he’s blind, Sam navigates entirely on Sight. Dean’s more than pissed, but also kind of confused and doesn’t really understand it. He hovers like a mother hen over Sam, even when Sam proves that he can get around the bunker just fine. 

Except for that one time with the stairs, but, Sam’s still learning. Mistakes happen. And, according to Dean, Sam has a head so tough that the floor is more likely to crack first. 

* * *

Demon tablet, demon tablet, demon tablet. That's all anyone is talking about. It's what everyone is after.

And now it's going to let them seal the gates of hell.

For the first time in his life, Sam thinks he has a chance to do something good. For being the avatar of darkness, for having the entire universe conspire to make him the end of all hope, Sam can do this good thing. 

It makes sense for Sam to do this. He’s been training in magic for months now, he’s familiar with it in ways Dean can never be. Plus, his Sight gives him an advantage. He can See the hellhound now, can See it as it rushes him and knocks him to the ground. Can See where to aim his knife to gut it. It’s the first time he’s killed while using his Sight. The hound screams with Sam’s voice, begging not to die.

"You won't be free of us, even if we lock the doors," Lucifer warns, "you and I are made equal. We aren't meant to be apart."

The hellhounds blood is hot and soaks in deep, all the way to his bones. Sam can feel the _hum_ of deep magic in his veins, wrapping around his bone. Something older and grander than even Castiel. Something closer to the true divine. It makes him feel powerful, and that makes him afraid. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Yes, Sam shoplifted those knitting needles. 
> 
> (Links are provided, they go to wikis/information sites and are sfw, but always open at your own risk!)
> 
> I’m basing the “demon ecosystem” we saw on Sam on a mashup of [deep-sea hydrothermal vents](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hydrothermal_vent) and [mycorrhizal networks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mycorrhizal_network#:~:text=Mycorrhizal%20networks%20\(also%20known%20as,and%20other%20nutrients%20and%20minerals.) (how some types of fungi connect/communicate with one another). In theory, as demons are corrupted human souls, we’re going to imagine one interpretation of that is that the souls have “rotted” and/or become overgrown with fungus/a buildup of other “minerals” and things, that change them into something no-longer-human (but can potentially be cured to become one! So, being demonic is loosely, loosely like an infection). Also there’s something here about how hydrothermal vents release “thick, black ‘smoke’, often containing large amounts of sulphates” in relation to Spn demons and their black cloud selves and sulphur everywhere. 
> 
> The theory is that since demons can’t reproduce, their “paternity/maternity/lineage” is traced through their specific “rot” that they can pass on to other demons they take under their wing or consider themselves close to. With this logic, it’s likely that Dean had inherited some of Alistair’s “rot” during his time in hell, but it’s likely that Castiel burned it out of him when he rescued Dean from hell. 
> 
> Young demons will likely try to acquire as many types of “rots” as they can, while also trying to grow their own. As the “fungi” act as the demonic means of interacting with the magical world, having a fine-tuned, well-cultivated network makes for a more powerful demon!
> 
> And this was a lot of info, so let’s end on a joke: 
> 
> Because we’re talking deep-sea hydrothermal vents and I implied the appearance of little fish/organisms of magic that populate Sam’s inherited demon network? This absolutely includes magical non-corporeal [yeti crabs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kiwa_hirsuta). Therefore: Sam has crabs, ba dum tss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!! Thank you everyone for the kind words last chapter <33 I loooove hearing all your theories and thoughts on this story!!
> 
> A few notes for this chapter:
> 
> 1) It was mentioned in chapter 1, but following the whole 'I got shot in the brain' thing, Bobby has lost his drivers license! Very minor detail, but it's referenced briefly and I didn't want to add extra lines of exposition to remind everyone, so... here's the exposition lol. 
> 
> 2) The next few chapters are pretty action-heavy and tightly packed with a LOT of big info and reveals coming our way! In separating the chapters, and trying to give the story time to breathe, it ended up that this chapter is a little shorter than normal, and as a result we get longer(ish) chapters for the next two weeks!
> 
> 3) I'm still working hard at Dean's side of the story (the next in the series) and I'm 50k in and we finally got to Sam's powers manifesting lmao. Purgatory was a trip!!! 
> 
> 4) Always remember I'm using the version of Xtianity that they invented for Spn, aka: "Who's religion is this anyways? Where everything is made up and history doesn't matter!!"
> 
> 5) I realized it's Dean's birthday today! Happy birthday baby boy and... I am so sorry. In this chapter we're going to cover the events of 8.17 aka 'Goodbye Stranger' aka The Crypt Scene for all y'all destiel fanatics (affectionate) out there. It's not a good time for Dean.

* * *

Dean gets banned from being around when Sam and Cas are practicing. Not because he’s being judgmental and Sam thinks Dean is growing to resent him, but because he's a big distraction. Sam wonders if this is the only way Dean knows how to be supportive. They're both so far out of their normal when it comes to this that neither of them know how to handle it. 

Sometimes Dean throws things at Sam with a, "hey, jean grey!". He's disappointed every time Sam isn't able to build his weaves in time, and inevitably misses catching whatever got tossed. Sam's also disappointed, and dreams of the day he can psychically catch whatever Dean throws, and then throw it right back in Dean's shocked face. 

* * *

Sam can't sleep, and he gives up when he hears the flutter of wings and the creak of Cas sitting in one of the motel chairs. Sam sits up and gives his eyes a second to adjust to the dark. Dean has always been a fussy sleeper, and turning on the lamp will likely wake him.

Cas is sitting still in the dark, facing them. Sam thinks his eyes should glow or something creepy, but they don't, so he's just a statue of a man half covered in shadow. 

Sam gives him a half-wave. He gets a small head-tilt from Cas in response. 

Sam drags himself up and out of bed and drops in the other chair across the tiny table from Cas. The view isn't anything great: Dean's asleep on top of the blankets, with his arms crossed and his boots on. The way he always sleeps when they’re out on a hunt.

"I don't get it," Sam finally says. 

Cas gives him the classic side-eye. 

"What's so great about watching people sleep?" Sam whispers. He's always wondered why Cas doesn't go like… out. Watch a movie, go people watch at a club or a bar or anywhere. Why doesn't he read or go do anything other than sit and stare.

"Nothing," Cas says.

Sam's too sleep-deprived for this. Lucifer takes this moment to drop in on Sam's bed, wearing Sam's face this time. But from when he was 12 and in the midst of realizing he could never be happy so long as he obeyed his father. 

"So why?" Sam asks Cas, and gestures at Dean. 

"Have you seen Dean's soul?" Cas asks. 

"Soul?" Sam repeats, and glances back at Dean. 

For practice Sam puts on his Sight. It's always easier when he closes his physical eyes, so he can focus on the intangible version of the world around him without the physical being in the way. Castiel's form fills the space, crouched near his vessel to pilot it with the one appendage that fills the vessel like a puppeteer's hand. 

Sam can see Dean where he's sleeping. Dean is… alive, organic. There's distinct differences between him and the blankets under him, or the air around him. Sam's noticed something he's been calling an _aura_ around Dean and other humans. It's kind of a glow, and more of a feeling, like an intuition, that shifts a little bit based on what Sam thinks is their emotional state, or maybe their intention. Is that what Cas means? Because Dean… isn't anything special. Of course he's special to Sam, but, Dean is plain and average like basically every other human Sam has ever peeked at with his Sight. 

In fact, Sam has looked at Dean several times before with his Sight, and not seen anything particularly noteworthy. Other than the novelty of using his Sight. 

Cas must realize that Sam is thinking this, or not getting the point, because he sighs heavily. 

"It may require a deeper descent than you are accustomed to," Cas says. 

That's a good point. All of Sam's work feels very surface-level. Even though there's always danger, he's aware that he's still scratching the surface of what's possible. Sometimes Sam hears tones or noises from Cas that make him think of deep space radio signals, or things in the deep dark ocean so far from light that they can’t even comprehend the sun.

"I want to try," Sam decides. Which is as much warning as Cas gets to stop him, before Sam lets himself sink into his powers. 

Water was the right metaphor, he thinks. It feels like he's dunking himself underwater. Like the lakes he and Dean swam in during childhood summers, like visiting the ocean with Jess, the real world fades away as Sam slips under. It's like entering another world, and he has the distinct notion he Does Not Belong, and that staying too long will drown him. 

Sam dives deeper than he normally goes when he uses his powers. He usually stays on the surface, where the water is warm from the sun, where he occasionally brushes a spot of cold that rose from the darkness below. He lets out the air in his lungs and sinks.

Ruby’s inheritance, his… birthmark? He’s not sure how to describe it: but the demonic growth, the lineage of his demon teachings, comes to life around his right arm. The small spots of light, like little fish, circle him excitedly in greeting. Hints of black smoke puff out of the tiny convex mounds. It’s a wondrous, working living thing in symbiosis with Sam’s own self. It warms the water around him, making it comfortable. Like Sam belongs here.

Castiel's song grows louder, or maybe just clearer. Sam's tempted to look at him, knows Cas will shield himself if there's danger, but why invite it? He likes his eyes not melted and in his face where they belong.

He sinks and sinks and suddenly it’s _freezing_ and Sam can feel his brain seize up. It’s— it’s too cold, too dark. There’s pressure pushing in on him. It’s like when he touched Castiel’s grace and got dragged into the deep end. In his bed, Lucifer pulls the blankets tight around himself, but it’s not enough to stop the shaking. The demonic network on his arm activates, a deep-sea vent that starts pouring smoke from it’s pores, the magic fish dive back into their homes, hiding from danger. Sam overshot, and he’s gone too deep. He won’t make it back to the surface before he drowns and—

Castiel’s song changes in tone, grows in intensity, and Sam feels satin like lightning, like the weight of a hurricane, cradle him like a cupped palm and he’s lifted back to a manageable depth. There’s a chiding note that changes to a vibration that rattles Sam’s ribs and eases the paralysis on his diaphragm. He can inhale again. Castiel waits until Sam is stable before he withdraws and lets Sam float on his own. 

“Thanks,” Sam whispers out loud. He’s still sitting in his chair. His heart didn’t stop this time, that’s good. That’s progress.

He can sense Castiel’s grace close enough to catch Sam if he sinks again, and he’s deeper into the magic of the world than he’s ever been. Sam feels the flow of it around him. It’s like the whole world is alive in brand new ways. And Cas exists _deeper_ than this? No wonder he thinks humans are limited. Sam wants to experience everything—he wants to wander the world and bask in sunlight, behold a moth in flight, see rain on cracked pavement and— 

“Sam,” Cas says quietly, and Sam remembers what he’s supposed to be doing. 

“Right,” Sam says, and tries not to be embarrassed that he almost lost himself again. 

Sam observes Dean. It's the same image as before: every single atom and molecule interconnects in his minds eye to build his brother asleep on his bed. Maybe, after all that trouble, Sam still isn't deep enough to see, or he can’t be deep enough without dying.

Dean's aura remains, but now Dean's form is overlaid with… himself, but different. It's colors and energy, and almost reminds Sam of angelic grace in a sense. Where has he seen something similar—

His _own_ soul. Sam is intimately familiar with his own soul now, though he's never seen it quite like this. Dean's soul is… well, it carries similar scars. Pain, grief, regret, self-loathing, rage and a deep loneliness cling to Dean's soul like cigarette smoke. There are distinct tones— the opposite to Castiel’s grace-song, where if Cas’ grace was the peak, Dean’s soul has notes that are the troughs, the lows, that would almost cancel out Castiel’s grace— it’s demonic, Sam realizes only a moment later. From Dean’s time in hell. Hell changes human souls from human to demon, changing the very nature of the soul itself because demons aren’t corrupted humans they’re the corrupted _souls_ of humans, which is why they’re so powerful. Dean carries marks of hell like soot and singed edges on a tapestry that used to be pristine. Sam looks from the ecosystem he inherited, to the burn patterns across Dean’s soul. Cas offered to burn it out of Sam. He must have done the same to Dean before raising him, but the ash still remains.

Altogether, all of these wounds, burns and scars, they alter Dean’s soul into something foul. 

And that doesn't sit right with Sam. This can't be right. Dean has a lot of issues, a lot of faults, but that can't mean his soul is this.. this awful. 

He's about to voice this to Cas, that something is wrong, when Dean's soul shifts. Like all it took was a certain slant of light, just the right angle, suddenly Dean's soul is beautiful. It's radiant. It's breathtaking, and comforting, and fierce, and forgiving, and savage, and warm. It’s like staring into the sun, except the sun _adores_ him.

Sam's so startled by the intensity of his emotions that he drops his Sight. His eyes are wet. He’s too shocked to even wipe the tears away.

"He was like that in Hell," Castiel says quietly, and Sam can't imagine that's possible— that anything so magnificent could have survived because a soul like that would have every demon coveting any scrap of it they could steal away, "at first I assumed it was because of his status as the Righteous Man."

"It's not?" Sam asks, and for one stupid moment he wonders if this means his soul could be beautiful too.

He knows it can’t be. Too many creatures have commented on how fucked up Sam’s soul is now, to the point that he doesn’t even register as human to them. He’s something misshapen and ugly, an unfortunate thing and to be pitied, feared, and hated.

Cas gives Sam his signature no-movement-side-glance. 

"It's love," Cas says, so simply, like it's not the most profound thing Sam's ever heard.

"Love," Sam finds himself whispering. And he knows it's true, that even without his powers he's _felt_ the warmth of Dean's love. Sam’s humbled for a moment to think that he's the only person Dean has ever actually loved. That he's the sole recipient of Dean's unimaginably deep love. And it makes him feel wildly possessive in a terrifying way. Because it’s Dean’s love that made Sam strong enough to hold Lucifer. It’s Dean’s love, ultimately, that defied God and saved life itself. Of _course_ Dean’s soul is so unbelievably beautiful that it’s pure gold.

Lucifer watches Sam with Sam’s wide eyes, bright, even in the dark. He looks small, dwarfed in Sam’s blanket. Part of Sam wants to tuck him in. He stays where he is, sitting beside Cas. 

“How can…” Sam starts, and wonders what his question is. How is this possible? How is _Dean_ possible? How have they never known this, how has Dean made it so long without being targeted for this?

“It’s well hidden,” Cas says quietly, “under many layers of personal strife. Hell stripped most of the layers away, while trying to corrupt him. He has… replaced them since then.”

Is that funny? Intentional? Part of a divine plan or a cosmic joke, that Dean has a soul like _that_ and it’s so well hidden under all of his shit that it’s practically a secret?

Dean stirs at their voices, cracks an eye open, and he looks a mix between bewildered and disturbed. 

It occurs to Sam the scene Dean is being presented with: Sam and Cas are sitting in the dark, watching Dean sleep. Hopefully it's dark enough that Dean can't tell Sam's been crying. 

"What the fuck?" Dean croaks, which, fair. 

"Psychic Club, go back to sleep," Sam explains before Cas can give them away that they were talking mushy about Dean’s soul. He heads back to his own bed. He pushes Lucifer's scrawny body out of the way so he can lay down. 

Thankfully Dean is tired enough to listen. He makes some noise that might have been words, but he rolls his head to his other shoulder and goes back to sleep. 

Sam can't blame Cas for dropping in anymore. Why go anywhere else when he could sit and bask in the presence of something like Dean's soul. It makes Sam proud too. He's always known that Dean was special. 

He feels Lucifer press up behind him, so they're back to back. A little reminder that Sam can live in Dean's radiance, but, at the end of the day, Dean is good, and Sam was made to be evil. 

* * *

Sam hits replay for the 3rd time on the 'beginners guide to knitting' video and promises himself that he's gonna get it right this time. Maybe he should learn to cut his losses. Maybe embroidery is a better analogy for building patterns with his magic. 

The thought of Dean catching him embroidering anything makes Sam want to crawl under a rock. He'll embroider Dean's ass. Or come up with a better threat. He'll embroider a curse that Dean's jeans will always be too short and hide it in Dean's room where Dean will never find it and he’ll look like Sam did as a kid when he hit his growth spurt but they hadn’t had time to go thrifting. 

No, that's still a shitty threat. 

Sam ignores the video in favor of thinking of a good knitting threat. Because so far 'I'll stab you with the needle' hasn't been enough to deter Dean from bullying him. Maybe if Sam can get Cas to say it's serious magic training? Or if Sam can master moving shit around. Next time Dean cracks a 'grandma and her knitting' joke, Sam will just launch him across the room. Or hang him upside-down from the ceiling.

Okay that might be good.

And now Sam's zoned out, and lost track of casting on again. He restarts the video with a heavy sigh. 

Dean walks into the bunker kitchen and Sam slams his laptop closed before he can even think to act less suspicious. Dean pauses in the doorway, stares at him, and decides to engage. 

"Are you watching porn?" Is the scenario that Dean's pervert brain has jumped to. Sam's disgusted. What kind of weirdo would watch porn in the communal kitchen, where people _eat_ , when they all have their own rooms? What the hell kind of weird shit does Dean think Sam’s into?

"Yes," Sam says, because he can’t think of anything else.

"Lies," Lucifer growls. Sam shushes him. Then remembers Dean can only hear half of that conversation.

Dean's still staring at him, "Can you at least do it in your own room? And not where we eat?"

"Yup," Sam says, and pops the p on the end. He can't stand up because his knitting needles are hidden in his lap. 

Dean waits. He needs another second to realize that Sam won't be getting up any time soon. 

"Wow. Okay," is all he says, and he turns on his heel and leaves. 

* * *

And then comes news of the angel tablet. 

* * *

Cas beats the shit out of Dean. No, that’s not accurate: Cas was one hit away from outright _killing_ Dean. And only failed to get in that final blow because Dean is fucking _lucky_ and there was something to do with other angels. 

Talk about divine intervention.

Sam sprinted through the building, hearing Dean screaming and _feeling_ waves of angelic grace sweeping through the place like individual avalanches. Burst onto the scene only in time to see Cas getting corralled by a bunch of other angels, weaving spells and enochian so heavy that Sam could barely see through the orchestra of spellwork. They were snaring Cas in layer after layer of spellsong, all struggling to restrain him like he was some wild animal. Cas was yelling, too, and his vessel was spattered with blood. 

The whole room was full of blood. And there, laying on the ground, was Dean. He wasn’t moving, one leg was definitely broken. 

Sam’s blinded as the angels surge in on Cas, and then they’re gone. Sam scrambles to get towards Dean, all while blinking sunspots out of his eyes. There’s blood all over the floor, there’s holes in the wall where Dean was definitely thrown into it. 

Probably shouldn’t have moved him. But with the chance of angels coming back— and what the _fuck_ is going on?— Sam can’t risk it. He’s really not sure how he made it to the hospital. He's not sure how Deann survived the trip. Cas was one hit from killing Dean, but Dean’s probably going to die anyways. 

Dean’s blood is all over the backseat. All over Sam’s clothes. 

But Dean made it through the night. He survived emergency surgery to— to— Sam doesn’t know. He knows he spent a few hours tucked in a corner of the waiting room, desperately trying not to lose his shit. Sam nearly cried when he was allowed to see Dean, stitched up, swollen and bruised, and so small and pale in the hospital cot. It’s late in the morning, maybe it’s noon, and Sam feels like he’s bugging out of his skin. He and Dean are hidden from angels— unless any of Dean’s broken ribs wrecked the sigils Cas carved there. Dean’s hooked up to so many different machines Sam doesn’t know which one to look at. 

Lucifer has been especially physical, probably feeding off of Sam’s nervous breakdown. He yells at or makes snide comments about everyone around them. He reminds Sam that the last time Dean was dying in a hospital, Dad cared enough to sell his soul to save Dean. Why doesn’t Sam love his brother that much? Why is Sam so selfish?

Sam calls Bobby for the fourth time, because Bobby can’t drive to meet him, but if he doesn’t talk to anyone Sam is going to go insane. The doctors don’t know when Dean will wake up. They’re talking about maybe needing to amputate a leg if it doesn’t get better. He had so much internal damage there was something about possible kidney failure, guesses about further surgeries to repair his face, his jaw is wired shut right now. The potential for brain damage. Hell, they don’t even know if Dean is paralyzed because he has fractures in his spine, and his pelvis got cracked too. It’s enough trauma that even the doctors are shocked he survived. 

Sam hasn’t been able to think. 

“Breathe,” Bobby says in lieu of a hello, “any updates?”

Sam shakes his head, realizes Bobby can’t see that, “No, nothing yet. He’s gonna have to be here for a while, I think. I— fuck I had to tell them he jumped in front of a train. I need— I don’t know what to do if they start asking more questions. I can’t just leave—”

“If you have to get scarce, you do that,” Bobby says, “all that matters is that Dean’s getting taken care of. As soon as he’s good, you and him can lay low. We’re gonna be okay, Sam.” 

“Why would Cas do this?” Sam asks. 

“Angels love orders,” Lucifer says helpfully. Sam looks away from him. 

Bobby’s quiet a moment before he says, “I don’t know. Sounds like he’s heaven’s bitch again.” 

That could make sense. Dean was the one who convinced Cas to rebel, to fight against heaven. It would be vindictive to make Cas kill Dean, to prove his loyalty. 

“That’s fucked up,” Sam finally settles on, “I thought… I thought he was different.” 

And this hurts, it really does. To think of how Sam was used to Cas popping in, to learning from him. How Cas had been given a trust that was incredibly hard to earn. That Cas was on their side, part of the team. That, hell, he and Dean spent a whole _year_ together fighting for their lives against all odds. And Cas dropped all of that to go back to a place that didn't want him?

“Sam,” Lucifer says, and he taps frantically on Sam’s shoulder. It’s not often that he makes contact with Sam, but stress tends to make Sam’s hallucinations stronger, and Sam is stressed as fuck right now. Because no one else is here to see the motion, Sam shoves his hand away. 

“He’s not human,” Bobby remarks, “humans are hard enough to figure out, but, an angel? Probably got tired of slumming it with us and wanted to go home. Or something else we don’t even know about.”

“Sam, get up,” Lucifer insists. His hands feel weighted when he grabs at Sam again, like he’s real, and Sam refuses to be moved by something he knows isn’t there. 

“That’s probably it,” Sam agrees with Bobby, and stays firmly planted in his chair. He’s so tired. He feels sick. He scrubs a hand over his face, looks up from where he’s sitting at Dean’s side and— oh, oh _fuck_. Cas is standing in the doorway. 

Sam cuts Bobby off, “He’s here. Cas is here.”

“Sam—” Bobby starts, but Sam hangs up. 

He stands up and puts himself between Cas and Dean. 

“We tried to warn you,” Lucifer says, but he’s standing at Sam’s side like he’s going to help. 

Cas looks… he looks like shit. His clothes are still covered in blood— Dean’s blood, Sam notes. And… and maybe more blood since Sam last saw him. There are huge welts around his throat, like burn marks. Scratches across his face. His clothes are ripped and singed. He looks like he just fought his way out of somewhere. He doesn’t look like he won the fight.

“What do you want?” Sam demands. How did Cas find them?

“I’m here to help,” Cas says. He’s clinging to the doorway for support. Funny that he’s so small and unthreatening in this vessel, when Sam knows full well the glory and terror of his true self. 

“Fuck you,” Sam snaps. He needs to draw a banishing sigil, and should have done it already. Why is he so stupid? 

“We don’t have much time, Sam,” Cas insists, “I can’t— they’ll be after me soon. Dean’s protective wards, they’re broken, so—”

“Because you broke them,” Sam growls. Fuck, fuck he was right about Dean’s ribs. 

“They’ll be following my trail,” Cas says. 

“So you brought them here?” Sam demands, and it won’t do him any good but he draws his gun on Cas anyways. 

Cas looks… hurt. Sad. Well, fuck him. He shouldn’t have tried to kill Sam’s brother. 

“I can heal him,” Cas insists, “I can make it right.” 

“It’s not going to be right just like that,” Sam says, and he surprises himself when his voice cracks, “you almost killed him. He might still—”

Cas holds his hands up, like he’s trying to be defenseless. Sam knows how powerful he is, and they both know that Sam’s gun will do nothing to slow Cas down once Cas has enough of Sam’s posturing. Sam has no power here. Lucifer bares his teeth at Castiel. 

Cas moves slowly, skirting around Sam. He doesn’t look at Sam once, totally focused on Dean. 

“Just do it,” Sam says, and he lowers his gun, “and then fuck off.” 

Cas takes a moment, just to look at Dean. To look at what _he_ did to Dean. And Sam wants to make him hurry it up, because Dean could still die any second now, and then Cas reaches out and gently touches Dean's forehead, like he's brushing Dean's hair back out of his face. There’s a second where Dean is on deaths door, bloodied and swollen and bruising, and then he’s clean. He’s healed. The machines start beeping loudly, no longer connected to Dean. 

“He’ll wake soon,” Cas says, and doesn’t look up at Sam, doesn’t move his hand from Dean, “and heaven will have noticed the sound of my grace. They’ll be here shortly. You need to leave the area immediately.” 

“Is heaven after Dean?” Sam asks. 

“No,” Cas says, and he finally steps back, “it’s me they want.” 

And he’s gone without another word. 

“We could have killed him,” Lucifer says in the silence. 

Sam’s alone, so he lets himself answer, “We would have died trying.”

“We know things,” Lucifer insists, “if you’d just listen to us, we’d be unstoppable.”

* * *

They ward the fuck out of Bobby’s place. Against _all_ angels, when they normally alter the wards to keep angels out but allow Cas entrance. 

Dean doesn’t want to talk about the attack, other than insisting that Cas was being controlled. That Cas _should_ have killed him, but that he’d fought it enough to let Dean live. 

“That wasn’t _alive_ Dean,” Sam snaps, and the impala’s backseat is still stained with Dean’s blood, Sam still has to scrub it out of his own clothes once he has a chance to breathe. If it will scrub out at this point. The clothes that Dean wore into the hospital were thrown out, completely unsalvageable, “he left you for dead.” 

“Something’s going on,” Dean insists, “Cas wouldn’t— he’s not like that.”

“He’s an angel,” Bobby reminds them, not for the first time, “we have no idea what he thinks about all this. And he’s lied to us before.” 

“Dean can’t see the truth,” Lucifer remarks, “he’s too close. It’s up to us to protect him.”

“Dean I know he’s your friend,” Sam says, “but you’re too close to this. He practically killed you. And I won’t let him get the chance to do it again.”

Once upon a time he promised to find a way to kill Cas. Now Sam will make good on his word.

Lucifer smiles at him. 

* * *

“We promised we could teach you,” Lucifer whispers at night, while Sam’s on watch and Bobby and Dean are sleeping. 

“Unless you have anything useful, shut up,” Sam says, “besides, you’re me. Whatever you know, I know.”

Lucifer’s face lights up, and he changes shape several times before settling on Sam’s own face. 

“You’re me,” Lucifer repeats, delighted. He grins like Sam just said something important. 

* * *

The recurring vision:

_Heal, blood, bite, oblivion. Learning, coiled, watching, drowning. Intricate patterns made infinite._

This time Sam records it in a journal he's using to keep track of his visions. He tallies the number of times he's had it in the corner.

It still makes no sense to him.

* * *

It’s only a few days later when an alarm ward goes off. There’s an angel on the property. 

Sam is first to the front door, and there he finds Cas standing a few feet from the bottom of the stairs, at the edge of the barrier. He’s clean now, compared to the last time Sam saw his vessel. 

“The fuck do you want?” Sam demands. 

Dean and Bobby join Sam on the porch, looking down at the angel at the bottom of the stairs. 

Cas’s attention goes right to Dean. 

“You’re alive,” Cas says, and while Cas doesn’t breathe, his shoulders slump like he’s letting out a huge sigh of relief.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Dean says, but not sarcastically. He says it _sincerely_. Sam scowls at Dean. Don’t thank Cas— Cas is the one who put Dean into the hospital in the first place. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. 

Sam sure hopes he is. Doesn’t change things, though. 

“You good?” Dean asks. Sam shares a quick glance with Bobby. That’s… not the question he expected Dean to ask. 

“I’m free of her,” Cas says, “she has no power over me.” 

And there should be more, namely, what the hell does that mean? 

“Are they after you?” Dean asks. 

Cas nods, “I will go, but I just… I needed to see you were…”

Sam is glad Cas seems to regret leaving his brother as paste he smeared into the floor. But that doesn’t change the fact that he did it in the first place. He’s going to say as much, that Cas is done with them, but then Dean clenches his jaw and jumps down the stairs before Sam or Bobby can stop him. He deliberately steps out of the safety of the wards, and pulls Cas into a tight hug. Cas nearly jumps into the embrace, fingers tight in the back of Dean’s shirt, the other hand to the back of Dean’s neck. 

Sam looks at Bobby. Bobby looks at Sam. Dean’s being too forgiving, too trusting. And that’s _not_ something Sam would normally say of Dean, ever. 

Dean holds Cas a beat too long. Longer. Long enough to signal that this entire embrace is a conversation they won’t ever have, because that’s how Dean rolls. Sam knows the basics. Dean’s done this for him too many times. It’s… strange. Sam is used to being disappointed in how forgiving Dean is of him. But he’s never seen the same grace extended to anyone else. Sam always knew that Dean’s patience with him stems from their blood connection, that if they weren’t brothers, Dean would have left him years ago. Or killed him. 

Sam also knew that Dean was fond of Cas. He’d just never realized it was _this_ close. Cas is… Cas is family. That's what Dean is saying. And they’ve all said it before, that Cas is part of their team, but Sam always meant it as a general thing. Like, his capital-F Family is Dean and Bobby. If the house was on fire? Sam would save Dean over everyone, and then go back for Bobby. That’s family to him.

Dean considers Cas family. Cas is on the same level as Sam in Dean’s world. 

Sam’s not sure how he feels about that. He’s never had anyone other than Dean, Dad and Bobby. Can Dean call someone family that Sam doesn’t consider the same? That’s never come up for them. 

Sam thinks of looking at Dean’s soul, of knowing all of that love was for him. That Dean had so much love in him, and he poured all of it into Sam. And now… now Sam’s realizing that he has to share. 

That’s never happened before. The truth of Sam’s universe is that Dean loves _him_ the most. 

“Maybe it’s good for Dean to branch out,” Lucifer decides, standing off to Sam’s left. He’s wearing Jess’s face again, because he likes being someone Sam misses, “he was always too different from us.”

“Change the wards,” Dean calls, and steps back enough to look up at Sam, but doesn’t take his hand off of Cas’ shoulder, “Cas needs to come in.” 

And when neither Bobby or Sam leap to action, Dean shakes his head and says, “Fine, I’ll do it myself.” 

“Are you sure Cas is himself?” Lucifer asks, “he fooled you before.” 

It’s a good point. 

“Wait,” Sam calls, making Dean pause. 

Lucifer holds him steady with a hand on his shoulder as Sam calls up his Sight. 

Castiel’s form is familiar now. Not in shape, as it is always changing and moving, but the tide and current of it, and the bands of armor are things that Sam recognizes. He’s crouched, like if he had legs, with a tether connecting him to the vessel standing beside Dean, and the rest of him bent forwards to lean down as close to Dean as he can get without touching the barrier that their wards have set up. Not for the first time, Sam marvels that Dean is so normal that he has no idea of Castiel’s presence around him. 

Cas looks, for someone with no constant form, exactly the same as he always does. 

“But what’s different?” Lucifer whispers in his ear. 

And then upon closer inspection, Sam notes all of the changes. Castiel’s burning halo is gone, and in its place Sam can see open wounds where every white-hot metal tine was ripped out. He can see places where the armor has been warped, dented, and pulled away. In many areas it’s practically embedded into Castiel’s form and peeled away like a scab. It leaves irregularities in the sound of Castiel’s grace, sharp or flat tones where there weren’t before. The absence of certain notes. 

Castiel’s wings, once held in beautiful shape by his armor, are now in forms that Sam can’t describe as wings. In places some armor remains, in others the what-once-were-wings protrude at awkward angles. There’s broken wiring around the mouths of his heads, and in the open gaps between, Sam sees both the end and fangs fine enough to split atoms. 

“It wasn’t armor,” Lucifer sings. His fingertips dig into Sam’s shoulder.

They were restraints, binding Castiel into the form of an angel. 

And now he’s breaking free of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wasn't a lot of 'cool magical metaphors' to share more ~neat facts~ about, so I'll toss in some overall concepts:
> 
> (Links are all sfw, but always open at your own risk!)
> 
> 1) When I'm talking about waves/crests/troughs in relation to Dean's soul, or Castiel's grace-song, I am referring to the visualization of wavelengths of sound, to keep up with the 'singing' metaphor for angelic grace powers. It ties into how I'm relating angels/angelic true forms to be similar to the wave-particle duality, thanks to Spn describing Cas as 'a wavelength of celestial intent'. [Fun pictures and more reading on the wikipedia here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wave%E2%80%93particle_duality#Wave_nature_of_large_objects)
> 
> 2) When Cas saved Sam from "drowning", here's a mental picture for you (Cas is obviously much larger, and like... not actually a whale, just has ~hints~ of that in Sam's perception/understanding of the "magical plane"
> 
> 3) In line with "angels are kinda like whales" and "angels sing their magic and it's very powerful" here's a [fun fact: sperm whales "sing" so loudly they can burst your eardrums if they sing right at you!!](https://www.discovery.com/nature/sperm-whales-are-loud-enough-to-burst-your-eardrums) (but they don't use this sound to hunt, as was previously thought. They're just loud boys!!
> 
> See y'all next sunday <33


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kind words last chapter! As always, I'm so happy you're enjoying this story!
> 
> A reminder, again, that I'm using the version of christianity that was made up for spn. 
> 
> We're officially Bon Jovi on this story! _(Whooaaaaaa, we're halfway there!)_ so now that we've set up our cool magics, it's time for a taste of magical spell-slinging action!!
> 
> Warnings: canon-typical violence. Sam is still feeling protective of Dean, and that makes him a little foul-languaged.

They take Cas into the house to be interrogated. Well, Sam and Bobby would like to interrogate him. Dean hovers over Cas like he’s ready to get between Cas and everyone else. 

Cas snags the new 40 of JD off of Bobby’s desk and chugs for an uninterrupted minute. 

“I’ll bill you,” Bobby grumbles. 

“Thank you for taking me in,” Cas says when he finally lowers the bottle. 

“You’re sure she’s out of your head?” Dean asks. 

Now the burning halo Sam saw on Cas is familiar. Like the torture Crowley likes to do— burrowing into the brain to get secrets. Is that what the halo actually was?

“Yes,” Cas says, and he sits down in a chair to play the willing partner to their interrogation scene, “I am sure. But I am not sure of how… how long I’ve been under her, their, control.”

“What does that mean?” Bobby asks, and he hefts his shotgun higher on his shoulder, “Cas I like you, but you need to start explaining things fast. You hurt one of my boys, bad, and I don’t take that lightly.” 

Cas looks at Bobby in that way he does without moving anything but his eyes. Dean steps forwards, hand out towards Bobby and about to start monologuing about family or how Cas should get a free pass for basically killing Dean earlier this week. 

“Dean,” Sam cuts him off, “we’re just talking. But we need answers.” 

“So do I,” Cas says, and drinks dejectedly from the bottle. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, “angels are not meant to… angels are soldiers. We take orders, and we complete them. We are the warriors of god, to serve, to protect, and to attack. Disobedience is swiftly punished, doubt is forbidden. The orders are just, trust in them, and all will be well. That is how I was when I met you. But obviously, I questioned my orders. And I rebelled against heaven. I am… not the first angel to do so. But rebellion is usually handled quickly. Angels are reconditioned, brought into line, or they are executed.”

“Which they’ve tried to do to you,” Dean says, trying to remind them all that Cas is a friend. 

“Tried, yes. But after Lucifer killed me, I was resurrected… just as disobedient. With all of my doubts. I thought it was a sign that God wanted me to change the structure of heaven, to bring free will to angels,” and now Cas pauses to drink again. He’s gone through half the bottle and Sam feels a little sick watching how fast it goes down, “but to heaven I was still considered broken. And I’ve begun to realize that is a recurring theme in my life. I have always struggled to rise in the ranks, and I never understood— and everyone has always called me strange, wrong, different....” 

“Pity party later,” Bobby says, not unkindly, “facts now. So you’re different?”

“I may have been made… wrong,” Cas grits out, “because now— Naomi, that was her,” he says, looking at Dean like this means something, “she has modified the process of reconditioning, and revelations to the host. She has altered it now to—”

“To control angels,” Dean finishes. 

“She pulled me out of Purgatory to use me in the war for heaven,” Cas says, and oh! That’s one mystery solved at least, “but, after I discovered her influence, I can see…”

He trails off, staring at nothing.

“See what?” Sam prompts. 

“I have been… conditioned. Forced into line, robbed of my thoughts so, so many times,” Castiel says, and he sounds dumbstruck by the revelation, “there are… I am so old and there are so many missing pieces to my memory.”

“Missing?” Dean asks, just as Sam speaks.

“And you didn’t notice?” Sam asks. 

“I _couldn’t_ ,” Cas snaps, “they were in so deep in my grace I— I don’t even know how long I’ve been ensnared, and what they’ve done to me. How many things I’ve been forced to do, that have then been taken from my memories.”

Sam thinks of how Castiel’s wings were bent into the wrong shapes, how his mouths had been sewn closed. 

Lucifer hasn’t detected any lies in Castiel’s story.

“I am… I am a mistake,” Cas says, and laughs bitterly, “except my father doesn’t _make_ mistakes, so he made me wrong intentionally. He may have made me to be the destruction of heaven, since that’s all I am good for—”

“You’re not a mistake,” Dean jumps in. 

“This Naomi— you keep talking about ‘her’,” Bobby says, and nods to Dean, “is that the woman who told Cas to—”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and he looks down at his feet, “she is the one who ordered me to kill you.” 

“She has that kind of power?” Sam asks.

“She did,” Cas says, “when she pulled me from Purgatory— she ensnared me in enough spells to strip away my free will when she commanded it. If she had me on her side, after all I’ve done, it may have been enough to tip the war in her favor and away from the Metatron.”

“Well she clearly didn’t do a good enough job,” Bobby points out. 

“No, she did excellent work. I was powerless,” Cas admits.

“But then how—”

Cas looks up, directly at Dean, “I heard you...” he says. Sam waits, expecting more words. But, typical Cas, he’s incredibly vague and doesn’t give context. He heard Dean, what? Screaming? Crying? _Dying_?

Dean’s gone silent, and he and Cas are just staring at each other in that weird way they do. 

“Ask about the armor,” Lucifer prompts. He makes a good point, so Sam’s willing to entertain him. 

“Your armor,” Sam speaks up, “that— that isn’t normal, is it?” 

Dean and Bobby look at Sam like he’s crazy, but Cas looks at him with wide-eyed surprise. He nods.

“Armor,” Cas thinks a moment, “yes, I can see how you may have mistaken it for that.”

“I didn’t realize,” Sam admits, “I… maybe I could have helped.” 

“I’m more impressed you could see it at all,” Cas says, “it was cloaked from even my awareness.” 

And that gives Sam chills. To be so disconnected from your own body that you can’t even recognize it. He almost misses the fact that Cas didn’t know he had the armor on him, and yet Sam could see it every time he Saw Cas. And he’d never thought to mention it? If Sam was better, maybe he could have helped Cas break free earlier.

“When you’ve become something you don’t understand,” Lucifer sighs, “we know what that’s like.” 

Oh, and now everyone’s looking at Sam. Because he knew something the resident angel didn’t. Lucifer winks at him, clearly pleased to have dug them into getting involved when Sam barely knows _anything_ about angels (that’s not true, but he doesn’t want to ask Lucifer what Sam knows. They keep their information nicely divided between them).

Sam’s saved from further questions when their wards light up. Angels. More of them. 

Back to the front porch. This time there are three angels. Two women, and a man. One of the women has taken point, clearly in charge. 

Sam almost thinks _speak of the devil_ , and hears Lucifer laugh at the joke. God, he misses Jess’ laugh. 

“You!” Dean snarls, and that’s confirmation enough that this is the supposed Naomi, the one who ordered Cas to kill Dean. 

Bobby cocks his shotgun loudly. 

Naomi holds up her hands, in a clear ‘I come in peace’ sign. Sam doesn’t believe it for a second. He’d activate a banishment sigil if he could, but, now that will also target Cas and thanks to Dean, Sam has to accommodate for Cas now. 

“I’m not here for violence,” she says. 

Sam debates shooting her in the jaw for lying so blatantly. Not here for violence? After trying to kill his brother? 

“I understand you do not feel kindly towards me,” Naomi says, “but that is not important. What is important is that you let us take Castiel _now_ before it’s too late.” 

“Fuck you,” Dean snaps, and he draws his gun. Maybe _he’ll_ shut her up. 

“You don’t understand,” Naomi pleads, and she’s way more animated than Cas is, with how he tends to have a complete lack of tone. It’s like Cas thinks it’s not worth the effort of putting emotion into his words, and every other angel actually wants to pass for human, “I’m sure he is spinning lies to you, but you don’t _know_ what he is. What he’s capable of, and what he’s going to do—” 

Sam recalls the time that Cas confessed that Lucifer once told him they were similar. That Cas’ actions mirrored Lucifer’s descent. His Lucifer, the one Sam carries with him as a sick manifestation of his time in hell, said that wasn’t true. But maybe that was just Sam’s wishful thinking. It would be fitting for Sam to keep attracting fallen angels.

“What he’s doing is staying with us,” Dean snarls. He’s put himself between Cas and Naomi. 

Naomi hisses in frustration, a shocking amount of emotion for an angel. She must be furious, “You stupid human! You can’t even see it, can you? How close he is to breaking loose!” 

Breaking loose from what? Her control? His armor? And Sam muses on the terrifying realization that Cas’ armor isn’t to protect him, but to restrain him.

“Better than under your control,” Sam challenges. He doesn’t like all the attention being on Dean, and since Dean is making the stand to protect Cas, Sam has to support him. They’ll talk later. Things aren’t adding up now. It’s true, Cas has always been just a little… _different_ from other angels. While that was in their favor before, maybe it really is a sign that Cas is only a few bad calls from being the next devil. If heaven felt the need to wrap him in such heavy warding and sigils, then what’s going to happen now that he’s breaking out of it all?

Naomi pleads to Sam, since Dean isn’t budging, “He is broken, and he is _breaking_! Under control is where he belongs— look at the devastation he has caused on his own. And that is still with the restraints he has worn for thousands of years. Imagine the destruction that will happen when he cannot be restrained.” 

It sounds a lot like what Dad thought about Sam. If he kept Sam in line, made sure Sam never did anything bad, then Dad wouldn’t have to kill him. Unfortunately for Dad, Sam was predestined to be the root of all evil. 

If Cas is also predestined to kill them all, well, Sam will fight him. But he’s going to give Cas the chance to choose. It’s the choice Sam never got. 

“You tried to kill my brother, right?” Sam checks. 

Naomi grits her teeth and answers honestly, as if cold logic will make Sam understand and agree with her over this, “It was a test. If Castiel could kill his weakness, it would mean we finally had total control of him. Like always, he failed to do as he was told.” 

Lucifer leans in over Sam’s shoulder, Jess’s golden hair tickles his cheek as he whispers in Sam’s ear. A spell weave, a Definition, and the unique pattern of Action upon it. 

“It’s a surprise,” Lucifer confides, cheeky with Jess’s toothy grin. 

“You will be hunted,” Naomi threatens, turning her attention back to Castiel, “you will not be welcome in the kingdom unless you submit. And if you care, like you claim to, about your humans, about heaven, then you _will_ submit. You’re too dangerous—” 

Sam fires a bullet, wrapped in complex weaves, with a polyp of Ruby’s lineage attached to make it sharp. He Defines it as it flies. It strikes Naomi in the upper torso of her vessel, near the shoulder, and he sees a moment of shock register on her face, and then Sam whistles a high note, crude and human in execution, but angelic in Intent, and the weaves Act, the piece of his demonic ecosystem grows teeth to bite, hurt, maim, and a chunk of Naomi’s true form _burns_. Naomi’s vessel goes slack as the angel almost drops it in shock.

She vanishes with a scream. 

Sam swings his gun to point at the next angel. He doesn’t have the energy to weave another spell that strong, but the angel doesn’t need to know that. 

“Who’s next?” Sam asks. 

The angels pick up their vessels and take off. 

* * *

Sam throws up over the edge of the porch before he stumbles back inside. He feels hollowed out, like one of the times Lucifer pulled out all of his insides, and he’s exhausted and energized like he’s gone for a week without sleep. Lucifer is delighted, and Sam can’t help but match the grin. He did it! That kind of energy, that power, that only an archangel could display— and Sam did it! 

“What the hell was that?” Dean demands in mission control, which is Bobby’s kitchen, and he looks from Sam to Cas, “did you teach him that?”

“No,” Cas says, and he looks closer at Sam, “that was…” 

Cas probably has figured it out. Sam assumes the weaves he used were unique to Lucifer because they certainly aren’t how Sam weaves spells, not to mention using that whistle at the end as an activation tone was _not_ human-magic at all and definitely angelic. Sam doesn’t let Cas finish. He’s too excited about how strong he is now that the danger has passed. 

“How about you tell us what’s going on with you,” Sam says to Cas, and he drops into a chair because his legs are shaky and he doesn’t need anyone to know, “are you even an angel—”

“Sam!” Dean sounds hurt. 

“You’ve always been different,” Sam shrugs, “you said it yourself, and we all know it. You told me once that Lucifer said you two were a lot alike. So, are you?” 

Cas narrows his eyes at Sam, and Sam recalls threatening to find a way to kill Cas, and Cas rising to that threat like Sam was an ant to be crushed under his heel. Sam’s maybe a little out of line, but he’s still riding high on his insane spellwork and how he just saved the day. 

“The question is,” Lucifer muses, circling Cas with a curious look, “what kind of creature makes angels afraid? But one that they want to hide in plain sight?” 

“Clearly you’re useful,” Sam points out, “why else would the angels go to all this trouble to keep you around, and not just kill you. What could you be?”

“I don’t know,” Cas sighs. 

“Sam, back off,” Dean says, “what’s going on with you?”

“He’s right,” Cas says, “with Naomi’s outburst it does seem more likely that I am not an angel.” 

Dean throws up his hands helplessly, “So what, then, you’re a— a— what? A souped up reaper? A demon? What else is on angel level, but not an angel?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says again. 

“Are you God?” Bobby blurts out. 

Lucifer bursts out laughing so hard that Sam finds himself laughing along.

Bobby shrugs, “It’s a fair question. If the guy has been MIA all this time, and everyone’s so scared of you finding out what you are—”

“I am not God,” Cas says, and his vessel actually pales at the thought, “I truly hope I am not.”

“He’s not God,” Lucifer laughs, and Sam says out loud, “You’re not God.” 

“Are you a— an archangel?” Dean guesses.

“We could go in circles about this,” Lucifer sighs, and then something occurs to him. Sam misses the way Jess’s face lit up when she figures something out, and he almost stops to stare at her, “ask him about the _Seraphim_ , Sammy.” 

“It’s Sam,” Sam replies automatically, and realizes his mistake when everyone else in the room stops talking to look at him. 

“Are you— you’re tripping,” Dean realizes, “that’s what’s going on with you—”

“I’m fine,” Sam insists, as Lucifer grimaces in his direction. 

“Lies,” Lucifer pouts. 

“You’re having a conversation with someone who ain’t here,” Bobby points out. 

“That spell you used was very reminiscent of Lucifer's weaving,” Castiel announces, and hesitates, “but then again, my memory is clearly not what it used to be. Maybe I’m wrong.” 

“Are you seeing him?” Dean asks, and he moves forwards towards Sam. 

Sam promised not to lie, when Dean asks him things. He’s always tried to avoid it, to side-step this particular truth, but he’s working so hard to break his old habits. 

“We don’t lie,” Lucifer insists.

“Yeah, it’s— it’s him,” Sam says. 

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, and turns to Bobby for help. Sam realizes that they think this means something serious is happening. That this is a big deal. 

He cuts them off, “it, uh, that’s not new. I see him a lot. It’s not— it’s not something to worry about.” 

Lucifer stalks around behind Cas, to really look at him. His eyes glow red, like he’s looking at Cas’ true self. Sam’s more interested in this piece of information his brain is trying to help him figure out, than he is about Dean and Bobby arguing over one another about how this isn’t normal. 

“Cas what do you know—” and Sam’s forgotten the word because it was unfamiliar. Lucifer grins at him, isn’t going to say it unless Sam asks. 

“What do I know?” Cas repeats. 

Sam sighs, braces for the fallout this is going to have. Lucifer slides up beside him, Jess’s hand is soft in his, “what’s the word?” he asks Lucifer. 

“Seraphim,” Lucifer says slowly. 

Sam doesn’t look at Dean or Bobby, because he doesn’t want to see the worry in their faces that Sam is blatantly talking to someone who isn’t real. 

“What do you know about Seraphim?” he asks. 

Cas thinks, and now Dean and Bobby wait to hear what he has to say. Maybe, somehow, Cas’ answer will mean Sam isn’t insane. 

“I don’t know— I am unfamiliar with the term,” Cas says. 

Sam’s stomach drops, and Lucifer giggles at his side.

“Sorry, Sam,” he says, his joke revealed, “Castiel doesn’t know anything. But we do.” 

* * *

Translating Lucifer's words proves increasingly difficult. Lucifer likes attention, likes that Sam is talking to him in front of other people. He purposefully says rude things so Sam will scowl at him.

"Angels are soldiers in God's army," Lucifer dictates, giving Sam time to speak, "archangels are the generals. Seraphim? They're shock troops. Divine SEALS. Weapons made for one thing and one thing only! You send them in when you don't want any survivors."

Sam's not sure how to translate that last part without hurting Cas. He doesn't look at him as he repeats what Lucifer says. He doesn't look at Dean or Bobby either.

"Strength almost to match an archangel, they’re solo killing machines. Just pure destruction, but loyal to the death. You give a Seraphim an order, and they won't stop until it's done. Very effective, very useful, to have a weapon like that. But the issue is, of course, after the Old Testament Dad got a little soft. Full scale destruction wasn't his deal, so, what to do with the war machines?"

"Can't destroy them," Lucifer continues, "they are Dad's children, and they're, well, they're pretty hard to kill. A waste of firepower, and again, just so tenacious. They make for great angels." 

"They made them into angels," Sam realizes. The armor was bending Cas into new shapes, to make him fit the part of angel. Angelic grace relies on wavelengths, maybe they were forcing Cas into the right frequency. 

"And you think I am one of these…" Cas trails off, thinking. 

"He has a penchant for destruction," Lucifer says, "it's what he defaults to. It’s in his nature."

Sam doesn't relay that to Cas. 

Cas shakes his head, "If I am supposed to be obedient, then why have I rebelled so much? I am defined by my rebellion against heaven."

"What's the last order he was given?" Lucifer asks Sam. 

Sam asks. 

Cas hesitates, thinks hard, and then goes incredibly still, even for him.

"The last true order I was given," he realizes, "before I rebelled. 'Save the Righteous Man. And keep him from harm'." 

Lucifer thinks a moment, and Jess’s grin is almost infectious, “I don’t think he’s wavered from those orders since.” 

Dean leaps to his feet, "No! No!" he shouts, and turns to jam a finger at Cas, "don't you dare tell me this is all—"

And Dean can't bring himself to finish his thought. Suddenly a lot of things make sense to Sam. If Cas really is what Lucifer, what Sam, because of his memories with Lucifer, thinks Cas is… then Cas's affinity towards Dean, and their entire friendship, takes on new meaning. Sam thinks it's a bit overdramatic, but then again, his only friend didn't just turn out to be under orders to be his guardian angel.

“Calm down,” Bobby says, as if reading Sam’s mind, “we don’t even know if this is true or not.”

“Because we’re getting this info from your imaginary friend who, well, just so happens to be the fucking devil,” Dean snaps, rounding on Sam. 

“It’s not him,” Sam sighs, “it’s a— we all know I haven’t been okay since hell. This is part of it. I see Lucifer. Sometimes he talks.” 

“And sometimes he tells you made up words or how to light an angel on fire with a bullet,” Dean says, mocking, “I thought we were sharing our shit!”

“I am!” Sam insists, “and I did tell you I was still hallucinating him! You knew this!”

“I didn’t know it was fucking _real_!” Dean shouts. 

“It’s not the real devil, it’s me,” Sam says, and he wonders if Dean is aware at how small that distinction is, “I know these things because I learned them in hell, and this is how my brain is processing it. This really isn’t something to worry about.”

“Not something to worry about?” Dean demands, “Sam you don’t remember how bad it was when your wall came down! If you’re seeing shit again this is the most important thing we have to handle first!” 

“It’s not,” Sam says, “I know he’s a hallucination. I’m fine.” 

“You’re not,” Dean argues.

To prove it, Sam pushes himself up to his feet. And because the universe is out to spite him, he immediately gets lightheaded and passes out.

* * *

_Fingers interlace. Bite, heal, bleed. Watching learning drowning. Sam bites, heals, watches learns, drowns._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is big on lore, and made from the very mangled lore of spn christianity. Feel free to ask for clarification if things don't make sense!
> 
> I don't have any fun facts for this chapter but I DO have [a sketchy-sketch of Sam and his hydrothermal demon growth that I did in between lecture studies.](https://demenior.tumblr.com/post/641356375743676416/girl-help-i-dont-have-any-digital-art-access-and) It's not pretty but it's an idea of what I'm thinking!
> 
> See you next Sunday!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Thank you everyone for all the enthusiasim and kind feedback last chapter <33
> 
> This week closes up our small 'arc'. I apologize that it's a bit short, but it's an important beat. 
> 
> That being said, next chapter (on valentines day!) is going to be our November 5th, 2020 (if you catch my drift) so it's well worth the wait ;)
> 
> Lastly: ART!!!
> 
> From the amazing tumblr user [rowingviolahere](https://rowingviolahere.tumblr.com/) slash ao3 user [Magpied_Spider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpied_Spider/pseuds/Magpied_Spider), see [Sam and Cas meditating together, ft: Cas' true form and Sam's demonic tube worms!](https://rowingviolahere.tumblr.com/post/641915578326630400/cannot-do-this-scene-from-ch2-of-to-exist-again) Go give this art some love!!

Sam wakes up in his bed, upstairs. Judging by the light in the windows it's early morning. Lucifer isn’t anywhere to be seen, so, that’s a good thing. He tends to pop in and out, especially when Sam’s feeling worn down. 

His body aches like he did some hard labor, but it’s manageable. Sam doesn’t know who took his boots off, but he’s grateful. Probably Dean. Dean’s good at those little touches. It also means Dean’s mad, but not _mad_ mad with him. He’s going to go into smothering parental figure, and baby the hell out of Sam. Sam takes a moment to prepare himself for the lecture he’s going to receive, and then gets out of bed. 

Sam makes his way downstairs to find Bobby in the kitchen. He’s sipping on a coffee and reading a book. 

“Hey,” Sam greets with a small wave.

“How you doin?” Bobby asks. 

Sam shrugs, “Better.” He pours himself a coffee, uses the flavored coffee cream Bobby keeps just for him, and hunts for the bread in the freezer to make some toast. 

“Good,” Bobby says, and then softer, “you gave us a scare yesterday, you _idjit_.” 

“Sorry,” Sam grimaces. 

“So your… uh, the psychic stuff,” Bobby asks, “you’ve upgraded to taking out angels?” 

Sam scrubs at his eyes, “Barely,” he admits, “that one spell wiped me out. And I didn’t take her out, just did some damage. She’ll be back.” 

Bobby nods, like this makes sense. Sam’s aware that they’re both avoiding the fact that Sam’s slinging psychic shit around at angels now, and that he revealed that he’s seeing and talking to his hallucinations of Satan. 

“Where’s Cas?” Sam wonders. Angels don’t sleep, so when Cas hangs around he tends to bother whoever wakes up first. 

Bobby shrugs, “Around, I assume. Or maybe he took off. He’s pretty, uh, down.” 

“Well, turns out his family thinks he’s a huge fuckup, and he’s not welcome back unless he says they’re right and lets them, like, lobotomize him,” Sam muses, and it’s only as he’s speaking that he starts drawing parallels. It’s too early for this kind of self-reflection. His toast pops so Sam retrieves his special peanut butter that Dean’s not allowed to touch, that Bobby’s been buying for him since he was a kid. It’s not even Sam’s favorite, but he remembers standing in the grocery store with Bobby one of the times Dad dumped them on Bobby. He remembers looking at this peanut butter that, at the time, Sam thought only _rich_ people could have, because Sam never got to have anything that wasn’t generic brand name or found at gas stations. Bobby bought it for him and Sam thought it tasted better than anything he’d ever had before in his life. 

“Family,” Bobby agrees with a sigh, “enjoy your morning. I’m sure your brother is gonna want to talk with ya.” 

“You don’t?” Sam checks. 

“Oh I’ll be there,” Bobby assures Sam, “but I don’t see the point in going through that talk twice. So enjoy the quiet while it lasts.” 

“Bobby,” Sam says, and he takes a second to glance around to be sure Cas isn’t sitting somewhere, totally silent like he’s want to do sometimes, “this thing, with Cas… I’m worried Dean’s too close.” 

“Cas is his friend,” Bobby says, but it’s in agreement rather than arguing. 

“I like Cas,” Sam says, “I do. He’s been a big help. But he…” 

Sam’s really the only one who saw how bad Dean was. Sam’s the one who dragged Dean to the hospital, could feel all the ways Dean’s body shifted inside in ways it shouldn’t have. Sam drove in a blind panic, running reds in the middle of the night to keep his brother alive. 

“Dean’s not objective on this, is what you’re saying?” Bobby asks. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “he’s gonna forgive Cas— _has_ forgiven Cas.” 

“You haven’t?” 

Sam shakes his head, “I think Dean’s going too easy on him. But I also… I don’t know. I don’t think Cas is necessarily bad, but—” 

“Keep an eye on him?” Bobby guesses. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. 

Bobby nods, “I can do that.”

And that feels good, to have someone in his corner who cares about Dean almost as much as Sam does. 

* * *

The talk with Dean doesn’t go great. But it doesn’t go bad either. Dean’s eyes are red in the way he gets when he doesn’t sleep much, and Cas drifts close in Dean’s orbit so it’s not hard to guess why Dean didn’t sleep. Cas is a wreck. He’s nearly mute, and when he talks he’s bitter and meaner than usual. 

Dean’s upset about Sam having hallucinations, which he should be, but Sam’s also been hallucinating for the better part of two years and he knows the difference between what’s fake and what’s real. He reasons out that his hallucinations are a means of his brain handling all the extra centuries his soul spent in hell, and really, he’s okay. 

Dean insists that Sam’s hallucinations are serious. He’s going off how Sam was during the entire chunk of time that Sam can’t remember very well, when Cas tore Sam’s mental wall down. Sam has a lot of new scars that he’s pretty sure he got during that time. He feels bad, because Dean must have worried about him a lot, but it’s not like Sam was a _total_ nutcase. He was still going on hunts with Dean, and being useful, right? And it’s not like he _doesn’t_ remember that whole time, he remembers bits and pieces: he remembers being scared and confused a lot, but he _also_ remembers how safe he felt knowing Dean was there, that Dean was his steady rock. Sam doesn’t remember hurting himself, like Dean says he did, but he does remember the nights spent at Dean’s side, knowing with absolute certainty, that his brother would keep him safe. So Sam remembers some things, but it’s like most of that time was a dream with no narrative or weight, Sam just moved through it with no knowledge of when he was going to wake up. A dream that lasted nearly a whole year before Cas came back from the dead and healed him. And Sam’s been good since!

They yell at each other, as they do when they get emotional about each other. But in the end Sam’s functional enough that Dean doesn’t have to be in crisis mode over him. It’s kind of a relief to not be the biggest fuckup in Dean’s life right now. 

* * *

With Cas being enemy number one for heaven, it’s not safe for him to leave Bobby’s house right now. He seems willing to wallow, at least for today, so Sam and Dean also get comfortable. 

They distract Cas for a while to get him to talk about the civil war in heaven. Is it the _same_ civil war? No, but yes. When Cas took on all of Purgatory’s souls, he killed a large amount of Raphael’s supporters. And then, of course, he died and left the leadership position vacated. Several factions have risen in his absence it seems, with the largest being Naomi who wants a return to status quo, and the Metatron himself, who has reappeared after a long absence and he seeks to close the gates of heaven. 

He needs the angel tablet to do that, and Cas hid it in the time between healing Dean in the hospital and showing up on their doorstep. 

“So they’ll be back,” Sam reasons. 

“As soon as they can trap me, they can… enslave me again,” Castiel reasons, “so, yes. They will return.” 

They spend most of the afternoon researching to find out if Sam’s just legitimately crazy and making things up, or if he _does_ know something that an angel doesn’t. Lucifer is nowhere to be found, which Sam thinks is on purpose. He’s being difficult on purpose. 

It takes hours and hours of dead ends, until they find a reference to seraphim in one of Bobby’s crazy old bibles. It’s old enough that Cas has to read it, because the rest of them can’t translate that fast. 

All it mentions is that the seraphim were called to earth, and also that the cities of their enemies were razed. Not necessarily by the seraphim, but it’s the only clue they get. 

It’s confirmation that seraphim might exist, but it’s barely enough to give any weight to the revelation that Cas may have never been an angel in the first place. 

* * *

“How do you do it?” Castiel asks later into the evening. He’s caught Sam alone on the front porch. There’s still some blood on the ground where Sam shot Naomi, but it’s outside the wards so none of them have cleaned it up yet. 

“Do what?” Sam asks. Are they going to talk about Sam’s spellcasting? His… research skills? He’s never entirely ready any time Cas asks him a question. 

Castiel pauses, which is the only warning Sam gets that this is going to be _heavy_ , and possibly rude, “How do you continue? After everything you’ve done and the mistakes you’ve made?” 

“And you didn’t even bring me a beer,” Sam remarks. 

Cas hesitates, and Sam braces himself for something worse, “I believe I have consumed all of the alcohol in the house. I’ve seen you humans use it as a coping mechanism, I was hoping it would help.” 

Yeah, that’s worse. 

“Did it?” Sam checks. 

Cas shakes his head, “It requires much more substance to intoxicate me.” 

“Liquor store,” Sam remembers, and just to make sure Cas remembers he adds, “and stupid questions, right?” 

“Yes,” Cas agrees.

Sam leans on the railing of the porch, “Dean didn’t have any good answers for you?”

Cas comes to stand beside him, and takes a moment to mimic Sam’s lean. Sam isn’t sure how he feels to watch something not-human try to learn human mannerisms from him, “He… is concerned. Which is kind of him, but, he believes my failings to be his fault, somehow.”

Sounds like Dean.

“I don’t understand his logic,” Cas confesses. 

“It means he cares,” Sam says, “I hate when he does it, but, it’s what he does. He’s done it to me my whole life.” 

“I know he cares,” Cas insists, “but I… my mistakes are my own. I need to learn how to handle them without thinking the best solution is my demise. Because God won’t let me die.”

Jesus _christ_ Sam wishes he had a drink. Sober and consoling a suicidal angel. 

“So you come to the other biggest fuckup in the world?” Sam checks. 

Cas grimaces, and for once seems to understand how little tact he has. But he doesn’t disagree. 

“Yeah,” Sam figures, “it’s not a bad plan.” 

“How do you… do you rationalize it? Do you ignore it?” Cas asks. 

Sam shakes his head, “I, uh, I have to accept that the choices I made were all my own. Especially when everyone was telling me not to do stuff. I was convinced I knew better.”

“I thought I could bring free will to heaven,” Cas agrees, “I wanted to free my family from the chains they didn’t know they were wearing.” 

“You meant well, but, it went really wrong,” Sam surmises, “I know the feeling.” 

“Everything I do falls apart,” Cas admits, “it feels at times that I was made to fuck up.”

It’s a bit of a perverse thrill, to hear an angel cuss. Cas spends too much time with them, and it’s kinda cool. Or maybe Sam should be embarrassed that they’ve shown and angel porn and taught him to swear. 

“Maybe you were,” Sam says. 

Cas looks up at him in surprise. 

“I was,” Sam says with a shrug, “and it— like, I was predestined to be Lucifer’s vessel, to bring about the end of the world. God wanted me to be the person who said ‘yes’ to Lucifer, to kill the world and everything good in it. So he set up that I had a loving, normal family, and then murdered my mom. He made my dad into the asshole he was, and I— I realize now that now matter how hard I worked at it, I don’t think my dad could never actually love me, because that would interfere with God’s plan. So my dad had to hate me too, so I would grow up to be a monster. I was infected with demon blood, I got these psychic powers, all of this shit through my whole life to make sure I don't belong anywhere. Everyone I care about gets hurt, or killed. I can never have a happy life: all for the goal of making me someone who would want to destroy the world.” 

Cas is quiet a moment too long. 

“I know he’s like, your dad, but he’s kind of an asshole,” Sam says, “and maybe he made both of us to be examples. I still… I know we’re post-apocalypse now, but I think that this path I was intended for never really stopped. If I let my guard down, something bad is going to happen and I’ll fuck up the world in another way.” 

“How do you know you aren’t doing that already?” Cas asks. 

The real answer is: he doesn’t. He has to live forever with this sword of Damocles hanging over his head, this constant nagging sensation that he can _never_ do good. 

But Sam has a secret weapon, that no one else in the world has. He checks briefly to make sure he and Cas are alone, that no one else has wandered close.

Sam leans in closer, lowers his voice, “I’ve got Dean. That’s the only reason I can trust that I can do any good. Because Dean knows where the line is, and he’ll tell me when I’ve crossed it.” 

“That’s a lot of pressure,” Cas says, and shakes his head, “to give one person that much power? I can’t put that on—”

“He doesn’t know,” Sam insists, “and he can’t _ever_ know that he’s… I don’t know, my rock? My moral compass? I don’t know. You can’t tell him about this. But you can listen to him. If you trust Dean, you can trust that you’re doing right. Dean _always_ knows where the line is.”

Cas is quiet, taking that in. 

“Trust Dean?” he muses, “yes, I can do that.” 

“But you can’t tell him,” Sam reminds Cas, “this is between you and me.” 

“Between us fuckups,” Cas agrees. Sam’s startled into a smile. 

The sun is setting. There’s some birds flying low, just black silhouettes against the orange sky. In the distance, Sam thinks he can make out the sound of sirens. This whole world shouldn’t exist anymore. It was supposed to end a few years ago, and here it is. Just as imperfect and beautiful as it should be.

“All this misery my father created,” Cas sighs, “I once concluded that freedom was a length of rope, and God wants you to hang yourself with it.”

Sam laughs at that, which is wrong, but Cas cracks a smile with him. 

“He’s restored me, I think, several times now after I’ve died. And yet he won’t return,” Cas speculates, “we defied his grand plan, changed the universe. There was never intended to be an _after_ the apocalypse. And he still won’t come home.”

“Well, if he ever shows his face, I’ve got some things to say,” Sam says, and he surprises himself when it comes out as a threat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam: I'm a perfectly well-adjusted person. I'm going to fistfight God. 
> 
> **Lucky for Sam that Cas is part of the 'lets pretend like we're completely rational people and then go off and do some of the most INSANE stunts possible' club. The club is made up of 2 people. It's them. 
> 
> Sam and Cas are very similar and I've always found that fascinating! A big part of this story was me wanting to set Sam and Cas up to have a more established relationship/friendship than they were implied to have in the show. [Marge voice] I just think they're neat!
> 
> **I know it feels like maybe we're skimming this possible reveal that Cas is something Not-Angel, and the conversations about his potential lack of autonomy etc etc, but as this story is Sam-centric leading up to a specific point, and then the next story in this series will cover these same events but from Dean's pov, I made the choice to write those conversations into Dean's pov, as his relationship to/with Cas is a large part of Dean's story, and I wanted to keep Sam's story more to him while also not making all y'all read the same conversations twice!!
> 
> tl;dr: we skimmed through a lot of very big talks/points in regards to Cas, to keep this story focused on Sam and we'll have these conversations in Dean's pov (The Love it Takes to Become a Man), which will be posted after Sam's story concludes!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day! This worked out perfectly for us in that I consider this chapter to be 'The Destiel Chapter', so how fitting for a romantic day! This chapter kicks off the "second half" of this story, and is, effectively, a breather episode before things get wild again next week ;) 
> 
> Huge, warm thank-you's to everyone who's taken some time to leave a comment <33 y'all are the bomb and I adore you big lots!! Your feedback thrills my heart, so thank you!!!
> 
> BEST NEWS: **ART**
> 
> More beautiful, ambitious art from tumblr user [rowingviolahere](https://rowingviolahere.tumblr.com/) slash ao3 user [Magpied_Spider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpied_Spider/pseuds/Magpied_Spider), see [Sam watches Cas n Dean have A Moment while Castiel's true form toes the ward line](https://rowingviolahere.tumblr.com/post/643069492441890816/another-to-exist-again-by-demenior-illustration) Go give this art some love!!!!!!
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter: nothing we haven't seen before (vague references/descriptions of Sam's memories of hell! Casual talk of potential death/dying (Hunter small talk).

Sam gets really good at recognizing traces of grace. It’s almost second-nature for him to pick it up on his magic-vision radar, which he can kinda turn on at will now. And he’s sensitive enough that even when he’s not using his Sight, if there’s a big magical fingerprint nearby, he gets— well, Dean calls it ‘spider sense’, but that’s dumb, but Sam can feel that it’s there, like the flicker of a light he’s just missed seeing. Or sometimes he even feels a bubbling sensation up his arm as the demonic biomass he got from Ruby shivers like it’s getting ready to pounce. All of these things add up, and Sam knows to use his Sight to find out what he might be missing.

He could probably point Cas out in his sleep, with all the times Sam has tracked after Cas in the bunker, and even at Bobby’s when they played psychic hide-and-seek in the scrap cars. 

So he’s _very_ confused when he walks out onto Bobby’s back porch, finally done with chatting with Bobby for the night, and finds Dean and Cas sitting close to each other like they always do because Cas is weird about personal space and Dean doesn’t mind, and Sam’s spidey-sense goes off so he flips on his Sight because what could be happening when Dean’s having a beer while Cas watches… and Dean’s mouth is glowing with grace. 

Sam looks, looks away, and looks back. Is he… is it a play of the light? Is he seeing things? But it’s night, there’s nothing that could be shining light on Dean’s face, so it’s _definitely_ grace, and Dean is glowing like someone slapped radioactive lipstick on him.

“Hey Sam,” Dean says, casual. Nonchalant. Why does Dean have grace on his—

“Oh my god,” Sam realizes. 

“What?” Dean snaps. 

Cas looks up over his shoulder at Sam, and his eyes are lit up with grace enough that they’re _physically_ glowing in the night, and Cas’ mouth is also lit up with grace. Cas is trying to be neutral, and Sam barely even has his Sight on, but he can see the traces of grace on Dean, and can just make out the outline of Cas’ true self crouched at the base of the stairs. All hundreds of Cas’ eyes are watching him, his wings are quivering, and Sam wants to stop thinking about anything quivering _right now_. 

“I… forgot to tell Bobby something,” Sam says, and heads inside before he changes his mind. Dean? And Cas? But Cas is a— Cas isn’t human! And his vessel is a dude? Sam’s never— since when did Dean? Has this been going on for a while— did Sam just walk in on— oh, god. No wonder Dean’s been weird about Cas as a friend— has Dean been into Cas for a while now? For how long? And Cas, well, Sam knows angels can get horny, but Cas? Cas doesn’t emote; Cas hates how complicated and messy humans get. He hates basic human needs and gets annoyed every time Sam and Dean have to stop to eat or sleep. And _he_ wants to— Sam needs to stop thinking, but _make out with my brother_ is already in his head. 

Sam makes sure Bobby actually did go to bed, and that he’s not going to walk outside and see something he’s not supposed to. Once he knows Dean is safe, Sam takes himself to bed with his beer, thinking all the time. How long has this been going on? Is it even a thing? Should Sam have waited to be sure that Dean wasn’t in trouble? No, he knows right away that he trusts Cas. Cas has always liked Dean more than anyone, and always gravitated to him. The same way Dean got personal with Cas from the get-go. Sam tries to think back— have the signs been there all along? Has he just been blind? 

Sam feels a little annoyed with himself, because he just never considered Dean and… well, a dude. Not that he’s considered his brother much at— okay, topic change. Reorient. Well, orientation. There you go. Dean’s always been a womanizer, and while Sam’s sure that by extension Dean’s probably gotten into weird— okay, brain, stop. What Sam’s getting at: has his brother always been into dudes? Is this new? And in any case, does he feel like he needs to hide it? Did Sam ever make him feel like he needed to hide anything?

Sam reflects on the last five minutes. Because the first thing he did, coming inside, was check to make sure Bobby wasn’t around to accidentally walk in on Dean. Because the first thought in Sam’s head was how Dad would have kicked either his or Dean’s ass if he’d thought they were messing around with a guy. 

Sam sips his beer. Would he? Dad was never, well, he was old school. He had opinions about shit that was definitely outdated. Even passed along a few of those ideas that Sam had to ditch when he got to college. But at the same time, no, Sam realizes. Dad wouldn’t have laid a hand on them for being queer. That’s just Sam’s issues of always assuming the worst about Dad. He’d have been disappointed, though. There probably would be a fight. 

Good thing for them, Dad’s long gone. And Sam grimaces and berates himself for that. What an awful thing to think. 

Better topic to think on: how is he gonna talk to Dean about this. And better yet: how much can he rib Dean for this, and how much mileage can Sam get? 

* * *

Sam manages to stay quiet for a week. He’s sure that Cas told Dean that Sam knows, but Dean doesn’t say anything, or even act like he’s hiding anything. Cas is gone for the rest of the week, and so Sam bides his time. They spend a few more days at Bobby’s, and it turns into a mini vacation. The three of them watch some shitty old monster movies, eat candy, play cards late into the night, and get gassy on bad beer (Dean) and too drunk on vodka soda’s (Sam and Bobby). 

Sam waits until they’re in the car on their way back to the bunker. It’s nice to have a home, a place to return to, that’s theirs. But sometimes Sam wishes it wasn’t so far from Bobby. The drive isn’t too bad, though. It’s pretty straight-shot, and Sam leaves his window down while Dean blasts music. 

Sam was going to wait longer, to get a feel for what Dean’s sitch with Cas is, but Dean came downstairs today with more traces of grace on his mouth and, what’s almost worse, grace over his shoulder where he has Cas’ handprint burned into his skin. Like Cas was touching it while they made out. And Cas himself never showed. 

Sam’s got an idea that this might be Something, rather than Nothing. Which is kinda cool. Outside of Lisa, Sam doesn’t think Dean’s ever been involved in something that’s lasted longer than two weeks. 

“You seen Cas lately?” Sam asks. 

Dean shrugs, “Something come up?” 

Sam has thought up a lot of lines, and a lot of scenarios where he gets to drop the bomb on Dean, and he’s thankful it gets to be here in the car where he can look at Dean and just _watch_. 

“Yeah. How long have you and Cas been a thing?” 

Dean laughs, sharp, and now that Sam’s looking, he can _see_ how Dean’s deflecting immediately, “Piss off!” 

When Sam doesn’t respond, instead of continuing to laugh about it like it’s a funny joke, Dean’s face twists into a scowl. 

“It’s not fucking funny, Sam. I’m sick of that joke, okay? Cas and I are friends, and if you don’t like him—”

Oh, shit. Sam thought this would be bewilderment, followed by Dean being mortified. He never intended to put Dean on the defensive. 

“I like him,” Sam cuts in. He really should have seen this coming, though. Dean is the most emotionally repressed man Sam’s ever met. Sam’s probably next in line, though.

Aw, hell. Sam really wanted this to be funny. He should have known he’d have to deal with Dean’s macho shit. 

“I was just joking. Cas is cool,” Sam continues, and looks ahead so Dean doesn’t feel like he’s being analyzed, even though he is, “I see what you like about him.” 

Which is only a half lie. Getting to learn from Cas has made him cooler, because now Sam can actually kind of understand why Cas is the way he is. He’s still creepy, and unsettling, and just because Sam can see his true form (kind of) doesn’t mean Sam _likes_ seeing it. 

Then again, Cas is a fellow fuckup. There’s solidarity there that Sam doesn’t share with Dean. Plus Cas is fun to do crosswords with and keeps Sam's tea warm on the nights he can't sleep. Oh, shit. Are Sam and Cas _friend_ -friends now?

Dean doesn’t relax, because Dean never entirely relaxes, but Sam sees him let up on his grip on the steering wheel. Okay, phew. Dean thinks he’s safe. Sam is going to have to bide his time on this thing. 

“I told you,” Dean says, “Cas is cool.” 

* * *

“Dean doesn’t know I can see your grace on him,” Sam says to Cas. Dean just stepped out to order pizza. 

Cas’s face doesn’t shift an inch. Sam doesn’t bother using his Sight on him. He just knows all of Cas’ weird creepy eyes are gonna be looking at him. 

“I hadn’t realized you could either,” Cas says, which Sam thinks is a lie, but maybe Cas has been underestimating Sam and that’s kind of cool. He stares at Sam, “Dean has requested secrecy—” 

“Don’t tell him I know,” Sam says, and wonders if that’s the right move, “is he— is he scared of what I think?” 

Sam wishes Cas would just emote, or shrug, or something, because he gives absolutely nothing away. Maybe Dean’s right and they should take Cas to Atlanta and use this poker face to their advantage. 

“Your opinion holds great weight for him. And I do not want to speak for him, but, I believe Dean will be ready to speak with you on his own terms one day.”

“Okay,” Sam says. And what he takes from that is that Dean’s busy having a big crisis and trying to handle it all alone. And Sam thinks back to how, in the shock of the moment of realizing Dean and Cas might be a _thing_ , he’d jumped back in time and assumed he had to act like Dad, or someone, was going to kick Dean’s ass, and that Sam needed to distract and cover for Dean so he wouldn’t be caught. 

Maybe it wasn’t an unfounded fear. Maybe Dad did threaten Dean about this before, or maybe Dad did do something if he caught Dean with a guy. Or, really, this is just more and more of Dad’s alpha male macho bullshit that Dean, and Sam, have to figure out how to unload. 

“Human gender is… confusing,” Castiel admits, “I don’t understand why Dean is so uncomfortable.”

Sam sighs heavily. Yikes. He does not have the time to get into any of this, not when Dean is going to be back any second now. 

“It’s complicated,” Sam says, and Cas rolls his eyes. They tell Cas ‘it’s complicated’ when they don’t feel like explaining things, or things are too hard to explain, which means he hears it a lot, “but just… go easy on him. It, uh, I guess we were both raised to think it was bad to be into men.” 

“I am not a man,” Cas grumbles. 

And that’s perhaps a little too much for Sam to think about. It was the same thing with Ruby— while he associated a human face to her, and once upon a time she'd been human, she was _no longer_ human by the time Sam loved her. Sam rationalized it that the human body gave her physical form, gave her features that allowed him to touch her. And, subsequently, be manipulated by her. 

But while Ruby had been defined by her human body, and inhabited it fully, Castiel’s form is so massive it can’t be contained by his vessel. Cas is so beyond human that the human body he uses is barely a fraction of what he really is. For a moment Sam thinks of those posters he used to see in classrooms where a huge dog would be bending down to touch noses with a tiny little kitten. Sam doesn’t remember the morals of the posters, but, the image always stuck with him because it was funny. The dog could eat the kitten and still be hungry. 

“No you're not a man,” Sam agrees with Cas, and not for the first time he wonders just what it is about Dean that made Cas so into him, “we know you’re not human. But… yeah, just give Dean some time. And if it ever comes up, uh, maybe don’t tell him we talked about this, but, you can tell him I’m cool with it. Okay?” 

Cas doesn’t get a chance to respond because Dean returns.

“They said they’ll be here in half an hour, and I got us some of those chocolate lava cakes. Cas, have you had lava cakes?” 

“Lava?” Cas echoes, frowning. 

“You’re gonna love it,” Dean says. 

Sam glances between the two of them, thinks ‘kitten’ and ‘massive, ginormous dog’ and wonders how the hell it’s supposed to work. 

* * *

“By the way,” Sam says one night, “we haven’t done the shovel talk.” 

It’s after 3 in the morning. Sam’s tea is hot, he’s in a recliner with a blanket wrapped around him, and working on a crossword. 

Cas glances up from his sudoku book. He frowns. 

“Was that a clue?” he asks. 

“No,” Sam chuckles, and sets his crossword aside, “it’s a human thing.” 

Cas sets his book down cautiously, mirroring Sam. 

“What is so important about a shovel?” Cas asks. 

“It’s called that because it’s supposed to imply I’ll kill you and bury you, you know, with a shovel,” Sam explains. 

Cas tilts his head, narrows his eyes, and is quiet as he thinks. 

“That would not kill me,” he finally says, like Sam has forgotten Cas is a multidimensional wavelength with sentience. 

“It’s for humans,” Sam says, and sighs. He’s going about this all wrong. 

“Okay, just, hear me out. You and Dean— I don’t know what— is it still a thing?” 

Cas squints harder, glances at the door like Dean might show up, and then back to Sam, “I told you. He requested secrecy—”

That’s a yes, then. 

“Okay, if you’re still, whatever, then it’s my duty as Dean’s brother to tell you that if you hurt him, I’ll, well, I’ll get a shovel.” 

Cas stares at Sam like Sam’s grown a second head. 

“A shovel won’t kill me,” Cas repeats.

“I don’t want to get specific,” Sam groans, “but fine! I’ll kill you with an angel blade or whatever that spell I did on Naomi was.”

Cas finds that amusing, “You think you could hurt me?”

“I did a number on Naomi,” Sam reminds him. 

“You caught her off guard,” Cas scoffs, “I’m not so easily fooled.”

Sam rolls his eyes, “Dude, I’m just trying to give you the shovel talk, okay? Take it.”

“Why?” Cas demands.

“Because you’re with my brother!” Sam says. 

“So you want to kill me?”

Sam groans. He should have waited until he’d actually slept to do this. Cas is so annoying sometimes. 

“So humans do this thing when someone gets involved with someone they care about,” Sam explains, “where we have to, uh, threaten the person because the one they’re—” and he doesn’t want to say dating, because knowing Dean this is just a sex thing, and Sam doesn’t want to make Cas think about dating if Dean’s just in it for benefits, “the one they’re with is important. Dean is important. I don’t want you to hurt him.” 

Cas takes the information in, and then says in a quiet voice, “But I have hurt him.” 

Fuck, that’s true. 

“It was against your will,” Sam absolves him, “we can let it slide.” 

“But you are correct,” Cas agrees, “Dean is important.” 

He says it like it’s a verdict. A law to be passed that everyone has to abide by. 

“He’s the _most_ important,” Sam hears himself say, “he’s all I have.” 

“Me too,” Cas agrees. 

And that truth sits heavy between them. Sam can see that Cas understands, that Cas knows how important Dean is. How special he is. And that it’s up to them to take care of him. Sam has always been alone in that role, because no one else in the world cares about Dean as much as Sam does. 

It should feel like relief, and it does, to recognize that Cas cares about Dean as much as Sam does. But Sam wonders again, at how this changes things. Dean loved Sam the most, that was the truth of the world, but if Cas is important, if Cas cares about Dean too, then… where does Sam fit in? 

“I’ll keep him safe,” Cas vows. Sam believes him. 

* * *

Sam and Cas don’t talk about him and Dean again, and things go back to normal. Or whatever their normal is. They go on Hunts; they pick up angel activity and intervene. They pick up demon activity and intervene. Sam is getting sick of talking in circles with Crowley, and just as tired listening to angels talk shit about humanity, the Winchesters, or Castiel. 

Angels hate Cas for giving them free will, helping stop the apocalypse, and then also coming back as a false God and killing a lot of them. Sam can kind of understand it, even if he thinks they’re being a little over dramatic. But with the likelihood that Cas is some kind of badass angel-adjacent thing that even _angels_ are scared of, heaven is too chicken to actually take him on without a unified force. So they talk shit, can’t back it up, and continue wasting their time on their civil war. The cycle continues. 

Sam and Dean don’t see Bobby for a while, and Sam doesn’t find that _odd_ until Bobby asks him over the phone “Did I say something? Why the hells are you boys avoiding me?” 

Turns out Dean’s declined dropping in to see Bobby a few times now. Weird. Bobby is family. They show up unannounced at Bobby’s more often than not, to the point that Bobby keeps stuff in his pantry just for them. 

They run into some other Hunters on a case, and Dean immediately declines working with them. That’s not unusual, considering that Sam and Dean now operate in a weird alternative hunting style that involves them working with non-humans just as often as they’re working against them. It’s hard to tell where they stand with other hunters: if they’re public enemy number one, or the heroes of the world. But now that Sam’s aware that Dean’s being weird about Bobby, he starts noticing all the ways Dean is _avoiding_ people. 

* * *

Sam catches Dean for dinner, one night that they eat at a fairly normal time. They even cook. It’s instant noodles with too much sodium, and frozen veggies steamed on top, but it tastes good and has been a Winchester staple since Dean was 8 and figured out how to combine the two. It’s the closest thing Sam has to an ‘old family recipe’, so it’s basically comfort food at this point. They even sit down at a table like this is a family dinner. It’s domestic, for them. 

“So how’s Cas?” Sam tries. 

Dean shrugs, “Busy.”

“He have time to visit?” Sam asks. 

Dean’s confused, “You can call him if you need—”

“I was thinking for you,” Sam shrugs. And waits. And waits. Dean’s not taking the bait. 

“He’s been hanging around a lot more,” Sam adds. It’s a guess, because since Sam pointed it out, he hasn’t seen any grace leftovers on Dean to gauge if Cas has dropped in or not. 

“Yeah, well, he’s family,” Dean says. 

Sam’s gonna have to come right out and say it, isn’t he? 

“He’s a little more than that,” Sam offers. 

Dean goes quiet, and his face gets pale. 

“It’s not too hard to—”

“Shut up!” Dean snaps, and he jumps to his feet like something burned him. 

“Dean!” Sam shouts, “calm down! This isn’t a big deal!” 

“This joke isn’t funny,” Dean insists, “I should kick your ass—”

“Dean, I’ve known for weeks now!” Sam says, “you don’t have to hide.”

Dean doesn’t back down, “Hide what? What do you think I’m hiding, huh?” 

Sam doesn’t rise to meet him, doesn’t give Dean anything to work against. He says nothing, and waits. Hitting back, getting mad and defensive, is how their family works because, Dad included, all the Winchester men have anger issues. And while Sam never learned de-escalation in time to deal with Dad, he’s going to get some mileage with Dean. 

When Sam doesn’t fight, or argue, Dean deflates. He doesn’t sit down, but finally rests a hand on the back of his chair, and can’t look Sam in the eye. 

This will be the time that Dean throws Sam something else, a different bone, to get Sam off of his scent. Sam’s expecting something about not feeling comfortable in the world after Purgatory, or maybe even something regarding Sam’s own issues and how it’s affecting Dean. They like to deflect by lashing out, it’s how they roll.

And then, in a completely uncharacteristic turn of events, Dean says, “I don’t want to talk about this.” 

He still won’t look Sam in the eye, but Sam’s never quite seen his brother so vulnerable. Sam recognizes his own words, how he once told Dean he was going to try and change for the better. That Sam wanted both of them to change. And Dean listened to him. Heard him. Dean’s trying, too. 

“Okay,” Sam agrees, “but, um—”

“Sam,” Dean snaps, pleads. 

“I just want to say, I love you. Okay?” Sam says. 

Dean looks ready to storm out. But he hasn’t left yet. Maybe Sam can salvage this. Sam’s a goddamn master of Dean-fu, dodging and weaving through all of Dean’s stupid emotional minefields. He can’t believe this is working— that Dean’s trying too. 

“Want to see if there’s a game on?” Sam tries. 

“A game?” Dean asks. 

Sam shrugs, “Any sport, I don’t care.” 

It’s barely a good excuse. Dean hesitates, caught between fleeing the scene and pretending there’s nothing to be running from. He settles on not running away, so they relocate to the den, where they’ve set themselves up with a projector and a screen so they can pretend like they have their own personal movie theatre. There’s nothing worth watching, so they watch some college football and try to get invested in that. It’s not much, but, at least they can pick opposing sides so they can trash talk each other over something that doesn’t matter. 

They have a few drinks, and by the time the game is over they’re both slouched and relaxed into the couch. Sam wonders if he wants to watch a movie, or anything else, or if he wants to go to bed. 

“Hey, um,” Dean says, and he’s picking at the label on his bottle and not looking at Sam, “you said you… you’ve known for weeks.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says carefully. 

“Was it— did I? What did I do?” Dean asks. 

Suddenly Dean avoiding other Hunters, and Bobby, makes perfect sense. He’s afraid of people being able to tell he’s, well, whatever Dean’s decided he is. If he’s decided anything at all. Which also means he and Cas _are_ something, and ongoing. 

Sam shakes his head, “psychic thing.”

Dean looks at him, horrified, “You mean like a vision?”

“Shit, no,” Sam says, and he laughs at how _horrible_ that could have been, to have a full sensory vision of Dean and Cas doing, well, all the things that Sam never wants to think about, “the, uh, magic Sight I have. Cas leaves like, I don’t know, grace fingerprints sometimes. You had grace on you.” 

“Oh,” Dean says, and then his eyes go wide, “shit— wait— like, every—” 

“No,” Sam cuts him off before Dean can have a panic attack, or imply any places Sam might see grace on him, because Sam doesn’t want to know where Cas might be touching Dean, “we, uh, Cas and I talked. Once. I told him I could see it. He’s been, uh, more careful since.” 

“You and Cas talked?” Dean repeats, sounding like a bad echo. His ears are going red, and he turns away to scrub a hand down his face, “fuck, fuck. So you’ve known and—”

“Hey,” Sam says, and knocks his knee against Dean’s, “it’s okay. I get it.” 

Dean shoots him a disgruntled look. It’s as effective as wet paper. 

“Maybe I don’t _get it,_ get it,” Sam shrugs, “but it’s okay.”

“No after school specials,” Dean begs. 

“Maybe you need them,” Sam laughs, and he reaches out to shove Dean’s shoulder, “so an _angel_? Isn’t that kind of taboo, considering you’re—” and Dean shoots him a betrayed look just as Sam rethinks and switches to, “a huge slut?” 

“You’re an asshole,” Dean snaps, and shoves him back. Sam laughs. 

“But, like, Cas?” Sam asks, “Dean he—” and Sam was going to keep teasing, to remind Dean that Cas is kinda creepy, and very much not human, but he can see all the ways Dean is tender and vulnerable right now, and how much Dean has changed that they’re even _having_ this conversation, so Sam changes tracks again, “he’s good? For you?” 

Dean’s whole face is red, and he nods. 

The sports channel is playing the only thing worse than college football, which is college baseball. Sam was never a sporty kid, and so he has a bare grasp of football rules. Baseball escapes him. 

“Good,” Sam agrees, “you deserve it.” 

Dean calls him some names, but asks for another beer when Sam goes to get one. 

“We’re not talking about this again,” Dean says. 

“That’s what you think,” Sam says.

* * *

Sam wakes up screaming, hears people shouting, and there are _hands_ on him, and they’re reaching in and pulling him apart and he’s crying _don’t hurt me don’t hurt me please!_ And by the time Sam is grounded enough in himself to feel the press of Dean’s thumb to the scar in Sam’s palm, hard enough it’s going to bruise, Sam registers something else:

He’s floating.

Everything in the room is floating. 

“What?” Sam gasps, and then everything, including himself, falls. He lands mostly on top of Dean. 

Dean’s grabbing his head, making Sam look him in the eyes. Sam’s sliding in and out of true Sight, not quite Seeing but not _not_ Seeing either. 

“Hey, hey, Sammy? Can you hear me? You okay?”

Dean’s face jumps between his real face, to his soul glowing through. Dean’s way more average than something like Cas, and easier to read. He’s engine grease, ritual incense, he’s shitty beer and salty food and deeply flawed cracks and pain and so much love that he reminds Sam of those 3D puzzles where you have to twist and turn and unfold the puzzle to discover the prize hidden at the core. Dean’s love is shining through for Sam, like the north star the old explorers used to use to find their way in the dark. 

Sam can’t find it in himself to respond, and, fuck, he’s tearing up. He barely remembers this nightmare, whatever the memory was, of what happened to him in the cage, but he’s bawling and he pulls Dean close and buries his face in Dean’s shoulder until all he can breathe in is Dean’s soul.

They don’t sleep, or talk much. Dean attempts a few jokes, to try and lighten things, and when Sam opens his eyes he’s still seeing chains and hooks, and so he keeps his head down and keeps himself grounded with the weight of Dean against him. 

In the morning Dean calls Cas to check up on Sam, because they’ve never seen Sam move so much stuff with his powers before. 

“Perhaps it was emotionally triggered, or perhaps Sam has a greater capacity for magic than we expected,” Castiel shrugs. He also heals the goose egg on Dean’s head where Sam’s flailing threw Dean into the wall before Dean could wake him up. Sam’s never noticed how Cas has always let his touch linger on Dean when healing him. Huh. 

“It was full on exorcist,” Dean says, “what if we’re on a Hunt and that happens?”

“So I’ll do more training,” Sam says, “I can’t just turn this off.” 

“Call me next time, if there is another incident,” Cas instructs Dean, and he does some _insane_ PDA and places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “I am stronger, I can help.” 

Dean doesn’t quite look at Cas, because they’re caught somewhere in this limbo of Dean-knows-that-Sam-knows-that-Dean-and-Cas-are-Something, but Dean is also pretending that Sam doesn’t know. Or isn’t ready to make it ‘real’ yet. 

“So what’s next?” Dean asks, tone changing as he forces himself to smile at Sam, “you gonna start flying around like a superhero?” 

“Maybe,” Sam says, which is _wild_ to think that maybe he could. If he could levitate himself, and everything else in his room, what else is he capable of, “you jealous?” 

* * *

_Blood in the water. Waiting, watching. Drowning. Sam brings his hands together. Bites, heals, bleeds._

* * *

Sam, Dean, Cas and Bobby are having a boys night in at the bunker. They made up an excuse— maybe a thanksgiving that they’re making up for, or it’s a sports thing or some other holiday— but they made a big dinner, they bought a lot of drinks. And because Bobby can’t drive anymore, not since getting shot by the leviathans, they’ve threatened that he’s at their mercy and has to enjoy himself if he wants Cas to take him home. It’s the first time in a _long_ time that Sam’s had a family dinner with no impending doom hanging over their heads. 

They really get into the drinks. Sam and Bobby are tired of Dean’s shitty beer, and so Sam’s trying something new— carbonated water and vodka? It’s low calorie, and doesn’t make him bloated and gassy, so he’s getting used to it. Bobby claims it’s not even a real drink, but both Sam and him are about four deep each (following the shots Dean made them all do), and Sam’s realizing that these things pack a punch. 

They’ve got cards out, music playing, and Sam even bullied Dean off of being the DJ for a bit, so they’re not just listening to heavy metal all night. Dean and Cas are clearing some dirty plates, and fetching the next round of snacks. 

Sam’s trying to help, but he just stood up and realized how drunk he is. Bobby’s red in the face, pointing and laughing at him, and Sam starts laughing back because they’re two grown men, badass hunters, and some stupid, frilly, low-calorie drink totally got the jump on them. 

It’s a little second nature at this point, and maybe has to do with Sam being looped, but he keeps slipping in and out of his Sight, and it’s making his spins worse. He can see Bobby’s aura, the glow of his soul and if Sam were more sober he might try and dissect all the different parts of it. Bobby’s soul gives him the same vibes that Bobby himself does: beer, old books, steady and unyielding, deep sorrow, and unfettered love pouring off of him so strongly that Sam can’t help but lean down and pull Bobby into a one-armed hug. 

Bobby’s soul lights up, even as he growls, “What’s wrong with you, son?”

Sam kisses the top of Bobby’s hat, and then pushes his cap down to cover his eyes. Bobby swats at him, and Sam staggers his way into the kitchen to get another cold drink. 

Dean’s laughing at Cas, talking about the music. 

“You’ve seriously never heard this one? Even I’ll admit it’s a classic!”

Sam wisely decides to join the conversation, but he’s not sure what song is playing, “Yeah, Cas! Get with it!” 

“Whoa, you okay Sammy?” Dean asks. He’s one to talk— his face is red and flushed and he looks a little sweaty, which he always gets when he’s drunk. It’s kind of gross. Except Sam _also_ gets sweaty when he’s drunk. He doesn’t think they got it from dad, so, thanks mom for this weird family trait. 

Sam makes finger guns and shoots them at Dean. When he closes one eye to aim, he slides right into his Sight, and witnesses how Castiel’s light has curled around Dean, which almost makes it seem like Dean’s all lit up too. 

Dean takes the finger guns as a threat, and jumps forwards to slap at Sam’s hands. And this is— this is so dumb, and they know it, but it’s fun, and Dean’s laughing, and Sam’s laughing, and Cas is sitting back and just _staring_ at them like maybe he’ll skin them and wear them like vests, and at the same time Sam can see how all of Cas’ eyes are looking at them, and can see the way Cas’ grace flashes brighter when Dean laughs loudly. 

Sam gets Dean by the wrist, spins him out, and Dean follows the movement into a flat-footed dance spin. 

“Who said you could lead, asshole?” Dean asks, “I’m in charge here!” 

And it’s kind of true, even though Sam’s taller. They’re in this thing, in life, together. But Dean’s unofficially the head of their little family unit. The family unit that includes Cas now. 

Dean grabs Sam’s shirt to try and lead him in the worst attempt of a two-step. It’s bad because neither of them are dancers, though they’re trained in the basics of a two-step, good enough to pass at least, but they’re both drunk, and Sam isn’t very good at following, no matter how hard he tries, and they keep kicking each other’s shins. They spin around the kitchen and bump right into Cas, who hasn’t budged an inch. 

“Do you dance?” Sam asks. 

Cas looks _offended_ , and at the same time Sam Sees what are like— they aren’t, not really, it’s more like sheet lightning— but Sam sees the feathers of Castiel’s wings ruffle, “I do not—”

Dean lets go of Sam, high on the good mood, and grabs Cas. Which should be funny, because Cas is like a marble statue when he doesn’t want to be moved. 

But Cas practically melts under Dean’s touch, and follows his lead as Dean tries to teach him the basics of a kitchen-shuffle. Cas is so stiff that it’s hilariously awkward, but Dean has an arm around his waist and leads Cas barely in time to the beat. Cas’ true form scuttles around Dean, maintaining connection to the vessel he is now _intensely_ focused on animating to try and keep up with Dean’s shitty shuffle dance. And then Sam realizes that this is the first time he’s seen Dean do, well, _anything_ with Cas. And that this is A Moment. They’re having a moment— Dean and Cas are having a moment, but, Sam’s right here, and they know that. Which means Dean is letting this happen, is okay with Sam seeing this and—

They’ve turned so Dean makes eye contact over Cas’s shoulder, and he’s smiling. Sam isn’t sure what to do, because this is huge, this is monumental, and he’s too drunk for this. Finger guns worked great before, and Sam defaults to that. Dean scowls at him, and then closes his eyes and tucks his face up against Cas’s. 

Sam retrieves two more drinks and retreats before he can make a bigger fool of himself. 

“Aw, hell,” Bobby groans when Sam returns with drinks, “these things are evil.”

Sam cracks his new drink, “Horrible,” he agrees.

Bobby cracks his drink to cheers with him, “Where’s your brother?” 

Sam’s not sure how to say this, if he’s supposed to lie. Because this is Bobby, and Sam can’t imagine a world where Bobby would ever turn him or Dean away for anything like this. But it’s not his place to tell and—

“No lies,” Lucifer says, “we don’t lie.” 

“Dean’s with Cas,” Sam says. He’ll let Bobby read into that as much or as little as he wants. 

Sam’s maybe a little cocky, on top of being drunk, but everything is so good right now. The only downside is that the bowl of chips is just out of reach. He holds out a hand, focuses his thoughts, and because he’s not thinking clearly, he makes a quick judgment, Defines the bowl as Other and Full of Tasty Chips, and _Acts_ on it. 

The bowl comes flying, and Sam overestimated himself and has to lunge to catch it. Half the chips fly out onto the floor. 

“Sorry,” Sam says to Bobby, “I’m still working on this.” 

“That was _you_?” Bobby asks, startled, and it would be funny if it wasn’t so serious, “since when are you moving shit like that?” 

Sam’s stomach drops. Oh, shit. Fuck. He’d forgotten. They’d mentioned Sam’s returning powers, and training with Cas, to Bobby, a while back, but it hasn’t really been brought up. Sam’s used to pushing and pulling things around when he’s home here, cause both Dean and Cas know what’s up and are cool with it.

“Cas was showing me,” Sam stammers, and he’s gonna be sick. Why was he so dumb to pull a stunt like this when they were having a good night? Leave it to Sam to ruin a good time. 

“I hear you’ve been working hard,” Bobby says, and he grabs a chip that landed in his lap and eats it, “that’s pretty impressive, Sam.” 

Sam hesitates, not sure if he can believe the praise. Bobby’s placating him, holding back his actual opinions. Bobby is family, is practically Sam’s other dad. But John Winchester made it clear that he thought Sam should be killed if his powers got too strong. Bobby’s face is stoic as ever, but his aura is… bright. Even still?

“It is,” Sam agrees nervously, “I’m, uh, I’m getting pretty good at it. You know, when I’m not,” and he holds up his drink. 

Bobby’s soul glows brighter at Sam’s words, like he loves Sam even more for being good at being psychic. 

“You’ll have to show me when you’re not,” and Bobby holds up his drink, “maybe you can help me clean the gutters in the fall.” 

Sam laughs, tries not to cry, picturing it. Using his freaky psychic powers for something as mundane as manual labor, “Yeah, yeah, of course.” 

Dean and Cas rejoin them with candy and pretzels, and the three humans spend the rest of the night trying to teach Cas the ins and outs of every card game they can think of. 

* * *

Cas hangs around a lot more now. He and Sam practice a lot. Cas finds Sam’s methods and developments fascinating. When Sam can get it right, the two of them float and pass things between each other like the weirdest game of catch. Cas is kinda cool, Sam will admit. 

Cas is good at crossword puzzles, and finds sudoku fascinating once Sam explains the rules. On nights that Sam’s kept up with bad nightmares, and doesn’t want to bother Dean, Cas will sit with him and the two of them will do brain teasers until dawn. Dean hates these things, so, this is something Sam’s never gotten to share with anyone else. He looks forward to it, sometimes.

Cas is awkward as hell, and Sam and Dean have made it their mission to teach Cas how to pass as human. It’s going to take some time. 

It’s a lot of fun. 

* * *

Sam starts getting better at picking up traces of other creatures that aren’t Cas. But he always comes back to comparing everything to Cas’ grace. Even though Sam’s not strong enough to discern every single trait of Castiel’s grace, Sam thinks he could pick Castiel’s grace from a lineup. 

Sam figures out demons pretty quick, and that he can see their _true_ faces. It’s gross. Hauntings are getting easier to deal with, because the ghosts can tell Sam exactly what’s going on with them and what they need. 

It gets to the point that the hunts they go on are ones that Sam feels called to. Angry spirits, or frightened people, call out to him, and Sam can lead him and Dean in to save them. Other than working angles with Crowley or the angel factions, and trying to keep all sides in check, they end up staying home at the bunker more often than not. Sam has spent a few years in his life being stationary, and not on the move, but he’s never done it with Dean. 

It gets weird to fight with Dean about doing the dishes, or who’s shopping for groceries. To have enough routine in his life to start watching TV shows regularly, or even to hang his clothes up in a closet. Sam keeps a duffel packed under his bed, just in case, but he starts to actually _live_ in the bunker. 

Dean stays secretive about him and Cas, and Sam figures that maybe that’s just how Dean is about relationships. It’s annoying, though, how Dean panics if Sam walks in on Dean and Cas talking in the kitchen or hanging out doing nothing. Sam gets tired of being treated like he’s going to die if he sees Dean and Cas doing anything that can’t be explained as platonic.

Dean does put his arm over Cas’ shoulders while they watch _Tombstone_ , and Sam considers this a personal victory.

* * *

“Do you ever… want to settle down?” Dean asks. It’s the two of them in a diner today. No hunt, just an excuse to get out of the bunker. 

Sam pauses to stare at his brother. Dean? Starting a personal talk? About emotions?

“Shut up. I’m not saying it’s easy,” Dean laughs, “but, you know, you could. Right?” 

“Are you worried I’m the odd one out?” Sam clarifies. 

Dean grimaces like Sam just said something seriously wrong, “I’m not _settled_ ,” he protests. 

It’s unfortunately true. If Sam wanted to be nosy, maybe he could catch Dean and Cas doing couple shit, but then again, maybe they aren’t actually a couple-couple. It’s hard to tell. They still stand weird close to each other and stare all the time. Cas likes to watch Dean sleep. Sam isn’t sure he understands the appeal. 

“You spent like a year living with—what’s her name?” Dean asks. 

“Amelia,” Sam replies automatically. He’s wondered about looking her up. He wants to know if she’s happy again; if she remembered what to do with all of her love now that her husband is no longer dead. Was he still the right shapes, the right man, to take her love? Sam fears finding out that things aren’t good, and so he doesn’t go looking. 

Dean also has no idea what happened between Sam and Amelia in their year of isolation and absolutely insane coping strategies. In fact, no one does. Bobby and Dean want to think Sam was settled and happy for a time, that he was living a normal life. He’s going to let them believe it. 

“Yeah, her,” Dean says, “like, clearly you want to have someone other than me. Maybe we both need people so we can stop being so…” He gestures between them, and what he means is that when Sam has nightmares that he can wake up from, he comes crawling to Dean’s bed for safety, and when Sam has night terrors he can’t wake up from, Dean comes running to stay with him until Sam does wake. And that even outside of that they live basically out of each others’ pockets. It’s a part of the lifestyle, and it felt natural when they were young idiots on the road, but they _are_ getting older. 

Just last week some college girls at the bar told Dean he reminded them of their dads. Sam’s still laughing about the terrified look on Dean’s face. 

Sam shrugs, “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m really cut out for relationships.” 

“Shut up, I bet there’s plenty of chicks who like your gigantic, nerdy appeal,” Dean says. 

“Since when the hell do you care about my love life?” Sam asks. 

“Since I started heading towards middle aged,” Dean points out. 

“You’re not middle aged,” Sam groans. Okay, so maybe the college girl fiasco hit Dean harder than he was willing to admit. 

“I’m getting there. And for a hunter I’m ancient,” Dean argues. 

“So you want to make sure I’m hitched before you kick the can,” Sam rolls his eyes. 

“I want to make sure you’re happy,” Dean says, “like, seriously, when was the last time you even got—:

“Shut up,” Sam cuts him off. 

Dean grins and sits back in his seat, delighted in grossing Sam out. 

Sam can always one-up him, “I’ve got too much baggage,” he says, and now Dean rolls his eyes. That’s a standard hunter line, to the point that most hunters mock any of the new hunters who use it, “plus I’ve got a _lot_ to deal with.” 

Dean shrugs. He probably has ideas on how Sam can get around his night terrors. 

“Besides,” Sam traces the last of his granola around his bowl, “my body hasn’t really been, well, mine for so long. I just… I don’t know if I’m ready to share. I’m, you know, I’m kind of a lot to deal with.” 

“You’re not too much,” Dean says immediately. He looks uncomfortable like he does every time Sam’s time in hell comes up.

“Besides,” Sam shrugs, “I’ve got a pretty big family for like the first time in my life. You, Bobby. Hell, even Cas is family at this point. And I guess we could count Kevin and Garth in too.” 

Dean looks pleased by it, but then seems to have a thought that makes him frown. 

“You ever wonder why we don’t meet cool chicks anymore?” he asks. 

Sam laughs out loud, not expecting that. 

He wonders if Dean’s trying to push him to find someone, so that someone else can lighten Dean’s load of taking care of Sam. Because Dean will never admit that Sam is too much for him, and all Sam can do is try to keep himself under control. Try to keep heading towards some form of stable, so that he isn’t a burden anymore. 

Lucifer finishes the last bite of Sam’s granola. He likes the way it crunches in his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are the Winchesters 'dance in the kitchen' kind of people? Dean might have learned it from Mary (and John) before Mary's death, but, uh... I highly doubt John kept up the practice after. So, they realistically aren't (or didn't grow up with it)!! But your author is a sap who loves dancing in the kitchen at weird hours with her family (especially throughout quarantine), especially as an expression of love and making a place feel like home so... we'll suspend our disbelief for this one simply because I was too soft to cut that scene out while doing edits. We can argue it as part of the process of the boys transitioning from home being a car always on the move, to home being somewhere stationary, that they now come home to (and can invite people into!)
> 
> Have a wonderful valentines day! See y'all next week! xoxo


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back to the plot!!
> 
> Note: Dean and Sam talk about sex/sexuality and because the two of them are, literally, feral kids raised in a car and in motels and the like, they... are not entirely accurate in how they understand things or explain them. So while they don't mean any insult, be aware that they have a very loose grasp of the notion of gender/sexuality and are just working with what they know (and even then maybe I'm giving them too many liberal credits lmao)!
> 
> And in this chapter we're going to see me make another major change to a s8 episode/plot point! You'll know it when you see it and I'm sure you'll agree with me that the way the show did it was bad and they should feel bad about what they did. 
> 
> As always: remember that I'm using the pretend version of Christianity that they made up for Supernatural. So I get a lot of things wrong, and sometimes it's on purpose!
> 
> WARNINGS: this chapter opens with some frank discussions about sex/sexuality. It veers higher-rated, but imo not out of the T rating as it's not explicit sex. Mostly because, while being 30-somethings at this point, both Sam and Dean are mentally 14 if they're left alone too long.

* * *

_Drowning in his dreams. Blood in the water. Shadows in the dark: watching, waiting, learning. Sam brings his hands together._

* * *

Sam nibbles on his toast while he waits for his coffee to cool. He’s following up on a lead, rereading the article on his laptop to confirm that this is the town he saw in his vision last night, when Dean strolls into the kitchen. 

No, he doesn’t stroll, he’s practically strutting. And whistling. He’s grinning, and it’s— Sam glances at the clock on the lower right of his screen— it’s way too early for grinning and whistling. 

Sam hasn’t finished his first coffee, so he’s not quite mentally coherent, and just squints at Dean. 

“Morning!” Dean says, and pours himself a coffee. 

Sam grunts at him. 

“It is a beautiful day,” Dean announces, and leans back against the counter. He genuinely looks like he believes it, and he’s grinning as he smells his coffee and then takes a sip of it. 

“What is wrong with you?” Sam finally asks. Sam considers himself a morning person, and even _he_ isn’t this cheery. 

Dean’s grin gets a little lopsided, and Sam’s seen that particular leer before. Dean’s mood is due to a sex thing. 

“Gross,” Sam grumbles, and goes back to his toast. 

“Dude,” Dean says, and scrubs a hand over his face like he’s having a revelation, “ _five_ times.” 

“Gross!” Sam repeats, louder, “I don’t need to know how many times you’re having—” 

“No, no,” Dean cuts him off, “not _having_ it. But five. Fucking. Times.” 

It’s too early for mind games. Sam pauses, thinks. It’s a sex thing, but not having sex, what else could—

“Oh my god,” Sam realizes, and stares at Dean. 

Dean laughs, still riding high on his good mood, “Oh, yeah.”

“No fucking way,” Sam insists, “that’s impossible.” 

Dean holds out his hands in a ‘it sure _isn’t_ impossible because I just had five fucking orgasms in one night’ kind of way. 

“Impossible!” Sam insists. 

“This is the best day ever,” Dean says, “like, literally nothing can ruin my day.” 

He struts to the fridge, and Sam sits in shock. His mind races back over every single sexual encounter of his life— he’s had marathon sessions before. He’s had great nights. And how many times has he… no, never that much. 

“We’re out of bacon,” Dean announces, “and you know what? I don’t even care. It doesn't even matter. Five, man!”

“Angel mojo doesn’t count,” Sam realizes, and he almost feels like he’s pulling together a court case, drawing on regulations, “that’s cheating!” 

Dean practically giggles with how happy he is, “No angel mojo involved. Totally kosher.” 

Sam is disgusted. And… weirdly impressed. He can never admit that. Now he has to come to terms with the fact that apparently, apart from being weird and nerdy, Cas is… _really_ good in bed. 

“You got something?” Dean asks, nodding at Sam’s laptop. 

“A case, yeah,” Sam says, and this is much better to think about than angel sexual prowess and his _brother_ , “I was thinking we hit the road after breakfast. I’ll explain on the way.” 

Dean’s grin spreads, “A case? Damn, this day keeps getting better.” And then, under his breath, Sam hears Dean laugh and mutter, ‘five’ to himself once more. 

* * *

It’s quick work to grab their bags and get on the road. Dean grimaces as he drops into the drivers seat and Sam has a brief moment of ignorance before reality kicks in and he realizes why Dean’s sore. 

“Oh, c’mon,” he groans. What a way to find out your brother takes it from an angel. 

“Worth it,” Dean declares. 

There’s a bit of a chill to the morning, and so Sam doesn’t lean against the window as Dean pulls onto the highway. They stop once to go through a drive-thru and grab breakfast carbs for Dean, and coffees for the both of them. Dean plays music and hums along, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. 

Sam hasn’t seen him this happy in a long time. And also… oh, okay. Now that Sam has enough coffee in his system, his brain is working again. This is also the first time Dean’s confirmed that he’s with Cas, as _clearly_ more than friends. And while Sam never needed to know this much about Dean’s sex life ever— and seriously? Five? That’s excessive— Sam realizes this is a turning point for them. 

Also, probably best to take advantage of Dean’s good mood. 

“So what’s the deal? Are you gay? Is Cas the exception?” Sam asks. 

Dean’s finger-tapping pauses, and his face scrunches up. Ah, has Sam found the one thing that can ruin Dean’s good mood? 

“Why does it matter?” Dean finally asks. 

Sam shrugs, “Just… curious. If you don’t know, that’s okay. I just, I dunno, I guess I wanna be supportive. And this is new.” 

Dean mulls this over, and Sam figures he isn’t going to get an answer. But it’s the first time they’re having this conversation without yelling, so, Sam’s going to count it as a win. 

“I’m not gay,” Dean finally says, “but it… it’s not just Cas.” 

Okay, so Dean’s into girls and guys. Sam doesn’t know if he should make a joke, or be overtly supportive. He settles on a neutral, “Cool.”

Dean gives him a weird look, “Cool? That’s it?” 

“Like, it really isn’t a big deal,” Sam says, “but it’s also a deal at the same time. I love you no matter—”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Oh my god,” he groans. 

“Sure, okay,” Sam says and turns in his seat to face Dean. He used to do this when they were younger and sprawled across the backseat. Sam’s too big to curl his kneels to his chest, but he gives Dean his full attention, “let’s do it.”

“Do what?” Dean asks. 

“Have you been into dudes all along? Or is it new?”

“Sam,” Dean whines. 

“You just told me you had an insane number of orgasms. I think I’m allowed to get a few answers,” Sam says. 

Dean snorts, “What, you want tips?” and because Dean’s trying to get out of this, he tries for grossing Sam out, “the prostate is _highly_ underrated.” 

Sam doesn’t give Dean the satisfaction of rolling his eyes, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Dean laughs, “Wow, Sammy, you’re a freak—”

“Oh, no,” Sam cuts him off, because he’s realizing this is something Dean doesn’t know, “I, uh, I slept with a few guys when I didn’t have my soul. Got some experience.” 

Dean whips his head around to look at Sam so quickly that Sam thinks he should have snapped his neck. As it stands, Sam lunges forwards to grab the steering wheel to keep the impala going straight. 

“Road!” Sam reminds him. 

“You fucked guys?” Dean shouts. He forces himself to look back at the road, but keeps glancing at Sam.

“Sex was sex,” Sam shrugs, “and sometimes a guy was easier to pick up. It didn’t… I feel bad, I think I was pretty rude. But it never meant anything to me other than, well, sex.” 

“Sam what the fuck?” Dean demands. 

Sam holds up his hands, helpless, “I… I was an opportunist. I’m straight, I’m pretty sure, but I guess if some great guy came along I wouldn’t be against it? Or I’d at least try? But I’m not really into dudes at all.”

Dean mutters a few curses under his breath. 

“How many?” Dean finally asks. 

“How many guys?” Sam asks, “why?” 

“I think you’re gayer than I am,” Dean declares. Like this is a superiority thing. 

“How many have _you_ slept with?” Sam pushes. 

Dean’s ears are going so red they’re practically glowing. Sam’s never felt this powerful in a talk with his brother. 

“What’s the hot one?” Dean asks, changing the subject, “the uh, the name for when the college girls have boyfriends but also sleep with each other. What’s that one?” 

“Dude!” Sam groans. His brother is so embarrassing, Sam wishes he wasn’t such a pervert. 

“What’s the name of that? They’re not lesbians, they’re, uh…” 

“Bisexual?” Sam offers. 

“Bisexual!" Dean snaps his fingers. "Yeah, so that’s the girl version. What’s the guy version?” 

“The guy…” Sam trails off, realizes what Dean’s asking, and says slowly, “Guys can be bisexual. That’s not… that’s not just a girl thing.” 

“Oh,” Dean remarks, and Sam can’t believe Dean’s learning this right now, _from him_. 

“You know life isn't porn, right?” Sam asks, and he can’t help but laugh. His brother is so smart, and then, holy shit, so dumb sometimes, “I can’t believe you thought—” 

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles back, “but yeah, sure, whatever. Bi. That's probably what I am.” 

"'The hot one.'" Sam shakes his head. "You watch way too much porn, dude. It's disgusting."

“That’s homophobic, Sam. Stop being so closed minded,” Dean teases. 

“I’ve slept with more guys than you,” Sam snaps, “get gayer.” 

Dean gives him a sideways look, and Sam shrugs. He said what he said. 

They drive for a few more minutes before Dean lets out a soft laugh. 

“I was just— we’re sitting here comparing the number of dudes we’ve hooked up with,” Dean says, “can you _imagine_ if Dad was here?” 

Sam considers this for a moment, and then the only thing to do is laugh. Both he and Dean break into nervous, nearly hysterical laughter. Because this would _never_ have happened, couldn’t even be possible, if Dad was still around. It’s insane to even put Dad and this conversation in the same reality. 

“Okay, okay,” Dean tries to calm down, “so, the case?”

“I had a vision,” Sam says, “or, well, I dreamed about it.” 

“So no real case?” Dean checks. 

“We’re getting there _before_ there’s a case,” Sam reminds him, “I checked it on street view, and I’m pretty sure I found the house. It’s a family in danger— not sure what’s after them yet.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, “wanna talk it out? Maybe there’s more clues.” 

“I wrote down what I could remember,” Sam says, and pulls out his dream journal. As he flips to the most recent page, he glances up at his brother. Dean’s driving, still in a good mood, and totally on board to follow Sam’s hunch that people are in danger just because Sam dreamed about it. 

It’s another impossible thing that could never have happened with Dad around. And strangely enough, the further they get from Dad, the more Sam feels like he gets to be himself. And Dean too. They’re making their life the way they want it, and, so far it’s pretty happy. 

* * *

The case turns out to be far more complicated than expected. 

Sam never thought he’d see Amy Pond again, barely recognizes her at first, but he walks into the morgue and his sixth-sense tingles so he pauses to put on his Sight and look around. She stands out like a sore thumb, clearly not human.

She’s the one killing. Sam’s stomach drops, because he’d always hoped she was different. That she was better. And she has been, she’s been keeping a low profile, been keeping herself safe and undetectable, but… she has a son. He’s sick. 

There’s a lot that Sam would do, and has done, to protect his brother. There’s worse things that Dean has done to protect him. 

“You have to leave town,” Sam insists, because if Dean catches wind of this, if he finds her, he’ll kill her. Sam is almost sure of it. Dean has adapted back to normal life fairly well, but when there’s things to be killed he falls into a terrifying almost-bloodlust that can’t be stopped until the monster is dead. When they’ve come across a monster case they can’t pawn off onto other hunters, Dean handles the killing while Sam does the research and provides backup. Dean hasn’t needed any backup yet. 

“Even if I do, I can’t change what I am,” Amy insists, and she sounds so heartbroken, “if my son gets sick again I _will_ kill to save him. I don’t want to, but I have to—” 

Lucifer is a snake, maybe _the_ snake, wrapped around Sam’s throat like a loose scarf. His scales are pearlescent white, his eyes red. There are dark tracks under his eyes, like he’s been crying so much it stained his face. 

It’s almost easier to have him like this, close and under supervision without being distracted by whichever human face he’s decided to wear today. 

“It always comes back to choice,” Lucifer muses, “all this talk of free will, and none of us really have it, do we?”

It’s unfair, Sam agrees, that Amy has to do this, has to become something awful in order to love her family. He looks at her aura and sees her fear, she has to worry that even Sam might kill her right now, leaving her son an orphan. She has to worry she’ll be caught by someone, anyone, all the time. She never knows when her heritage will ruin the happiness she’s built. She has to live like this, to accept that her life is always on the edge of falling apart, just for existing. It breaks Sam’s heart and makes him see red all at the same time. 

“Hold on a second,” Sam says to Amy, and pulls out his phone. He steps away, makes a show of dialing a number, and turns away from her. 

“Corruption was your thing, right?” Sam asks. And he knows this isn’t Lucifer, that this is a piece of himself, the part of him he can’t accept, but this piece of him seems to have knowledge that Sam isn’t ready to know yet. This is the piece of him that _wants_ to be Lucifer. Maybe he knows something. 

He can feel the slide of scales against his throat as Lucifer shifts, winding around Sam’s raised hand to whisper in his ear beside his phone. 

“Corruption means distorting the soul,” Sam continues, “it means… changing people. Fundamentally.” 

“We want to change her?” Lucifer asks. There’s a _hiss_ to his words in this form. 

“Can we?” Sam asks, realizes his slip, and says, “can you show me how?”

“She was created as God intended,” Lucifer says, but his coils tighten around Sam’s throat, “to change her is an act of violence against our father.” 

“He wants her to suffer,” Sam insists, “can we help her?”

“It will be difficult,” Lucifer says, “it will be hard. It could kill us. But if you trust us, then we can try. Say yes, Sam, and let us help.”

“No,” Sam says clearly. This Lucifer isn’t real, isn’t The Lucifer, but Sam will never say yes to him, “so are you in, or not?”

“Of course we are with you,” Lucifer says, sounding like a friend. 

* * *

It’s going to be dangerous, it’s going to be so, so dangerous not just for Sam but also for Amy. They leave right from her work, Sam sends Dean a text that he’s following up on some stuff, expects to be busy for a few hours. He’ll meet him at the motel later. Amy calls her son, gives him instructions to pack up and be ready to move, just in case. 

“If I die…” she trails off. 

“I’ll make sure he’s okay,” Sam promises. She doesn’t look pleased at the thought.

“And what if we’re dead too?” Lucifer asks. 

* * *

They grab a motel room on the edge of town, opposite where Sam and Dean are staying. Sam keeps his phone turned off so Dean can’t track him. 

“Proper materials and spell ingredients would help,” Lucifer mumbles, “but we don’t have time or access.”

“Are you sure you can do this? Change me?” Amy asks again. 

Sam hunts down stationary and a pen, has to scribble a few times before the ink flows. He writes a short message to Dean, says he’s trying to help a friend. 

“I can’t make you human,” Sam says, “but I think— I think I can change that you _have_ to eat humans.” 

“You’re gonna make me a vegetarian?” she scoffs. 

“You could eat other animals,” Sam says, “and if it works… then we can do the same for your son. And you’ll never have to eat some dead guy’s brain again. You can stop working in morgues.” 

Amy frowns, “I like my job,” she says, and pauses, “and I shouldn’t say this, but I.. I like eating brain. It’s what I’m supposed to do. It’s like… uh, what steak and cotton candy would be like for a human, but all at once. There’s nothing like it.” 

Sam finishes his note to Dean, keeping it vague enough in case Dean isn’t the first to find him should Sam die: _don’t follow me_. He hopes Dean understands. 

“I shouldn’t say that to a Hunter,” Amy sighs, “fuck. Sorry. I just— I don’t know if I want to change—” 

“Then I won’t do it,” Sam says. But if she can’t change, if Sam can’t change her nature, then they’re going to clash. Then they have to be enemies. 

She shakes her head, “No, no, I have to. To protect my family. What do I have to do?” 

“Lay down,” Sam says, and gestures to the single bed. He pulls over the chair to sit beside it. 

She grabs him, before he sits, and pulls him into a hug. Her strength is unnatural to her size, Sam can feel the points of her claws in his back. He hugs her tight. 

“It’s good to see you. I’m so lucky it’s you,” she confesses, and then breathes deep, and pulls away to look up at him, “what happened? You don’t smell human.”

Lucifer hisses below Sam’s ear, like he might try and bite her. 

“What do I smell like?” Sam asks. He’s not entirely surprised by the comment, but it’s unnerving to hear.

She leans back, hands still on him, and cocks her head back and forth to think. Up close she has flecks of gold in her eyes that glitter in the low light of the room. It’s magic, Sam realizes, her own version of it. What does she see when she looks at him? Sam thinks of Castiel’s armor, or what he thought was armor, that Cas couldn’t see on himself. Is Sam bound in a similar design?

“Like you,” she finally says, “but not… not normal. I don’t know how to describe it.” 

It’s not much of an answer, but it’s also a relief to hear someone who knew him years and years ago sees him as that same boy. 

She’s in scrubs, so Sam pulls the belt off of his pants, “You might want to bite down on this,” he warns, “sorry.” 

She’s shaking as she lays down. Sam wants to comfort her, but he needs to focus. He’s gone into deep magic twice now, since his powers have returned, and both times he would have drowned if it wasn’t for Cas. He’ll need to go deep for this, he knows, and if he goes down there won’t be anyone to pull him out. 

“How long will it take?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” Sam admits, “I haven't done this before.”

“I have,” Lucifer reminds him, and he uncoils from Sam’s throat to wind down Sam’s arm. His head rests on the back of Sam’s hand. He looks at home, white scales surrounded by the strange hydrothermal garden of Ruby’s demonic lineage growing in Sam’s aura. 

Sam sets that hand on Amy’s stomach, feels the warmth of her body through her clothes, and the cold weight of Lucifer pushing his hand down. 

“Be brave,” Sam tells Amy. She stares hard at the ceiling, bracing herself. 

“Corruption is our specialty,” Lucifer says, and then he bites down through Sam’s hand and into Amy’s soul. 

* * *

It’s cold. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. Sam forces himself to keep his eyes open, controls the descent. Lucifer, wrapped tight around his arm, is normally so cold to the touch, but the energy around them is so intense that it makes Lucifer feel hot. The demonic pattern wrapped around Sam’s arm begins leaking traces of smoke the deeper they go. Small lights, like marine snow or tiny glowing fish, begin to circle them. Sam is acutely aware of Lucifer and every small shift of his being. His fangs are still pressed through Sam’s hand. There’s blood in the water. 

_Blood in the water_ — like his recurring vision!

“Don’t!” Lucifer’s eyes flash red, a warning tone vibrates down his serpentine body, “don’t get distracted!” 

But this is it. This has to be it. It’s his vision. Sam was meant to find Amy, to help her, to save her. He can do this!

Lucifer’s tail becomes a burning noose around his throat. Sam’s dragged back to the present. He sank faster than he intended. He needs to stay focused. He can already feel the pressure building, the current that wants to drag him under. 

Stepping back, he can see the truth. This isn’t his vision. Like a puzzle piece, it’s the right shape, but the wrong colors. It doesn’t fit. Sam wants to believe it’s a sign he’s going to survive this. 

Amy’s self, her essence, her _being_ is unlike Dean’s soul, unlike Castiel’s grace, unlike Bobby’s aura, unlike the demonic ecosystem on his arm. It’s not human, not angel, not demon, and Sam is _delighted_ by it. By her. He feels her hunger, her drive to survive, the deep love she holds for her child, the sorrow of her mother’s death, the fear that lingers in everything she does. Sam feels the pride in what she is, the joy of being alive. She doesn’t see humanity as he does, she views them as other, and it doesn’t pain her. They can be friends, but they are also food, and there is no guilt there. She doesn’t have Sam’s fears of being other, because other is who she is. 

“Change is best done gradually, over time,” Lucifer instructs, “let them give into temptation, make them change themselves. It’s more likely to take.” 

“We don’t have time,” Sam says. Lucifer knows this.

“Then we must rip. Tear. Recreate,” Lucifer says, and his warning is for Sam, “she will fight to protect her nature. She will resist. We must overpower her.” 

* * *

Amy fights, as Lucifer said she would. Sam’s demonic tools change form, becoming sharp edges and hungry mouths made for shearing and devouring. It’s hard work, it’s killing with kindness.

Sam and Lucifer drag Amy down into the vast expanse of the magic of the world.

They take her deep enough to drown her. 

* * *

There’s an ache somewhere near his bellybutton, anchored to his spine. It’s like he got dragged by a rope around, or rather, _in_ his waist. He’s startled to realize he has a body. There’s… he has limbs. A torso. Fingers!

Words, muted, mumbled around him. 

Something strikes him in the head. His bones feel bruised. Like his face could collapse into a concave shape. It rings in his skull, helps him define the shape of his face. A slapped cheek. Eyes, nose, ears. A mouth. Teeth. 

“Sammy? Sam! Can you hear me?”

“Try again Dean, you need to call him out.” 

There’s light. There’s glorious, blinding light above him. It burns and it melts, and he’s incapable of going away from it. The tether carries him higher and higher. 

Things in the dark pull at him. He feels fingers around his ankles, drawing him back down. 

“He’s sinking. Call to him—”

“I’m trying— Sam! C’mon little brother, come back. Follow my voice, or, or, if there’s a tunnel don’t go into the light, okay? You gotta wake up Sam, you’re freaking me out—”

He’s suspended between the light and the dark. Both sides call to him. The cold is familiar, thrilling. The things it promises, the things it offers, the power it grants… his mouth waters. Something moves under his skin. It’s in his bones. It wants to go to the dark.

“I can see him. Keep going, Dean.” 

And then a brilliant, angry song cuts through the dark. It’s not as bright as the sun above, but it swims under him, pushing the dark back. Gives him just enough space to be pulled higher instead of back down. 

The song follows, not touching him, but hovering in case he falls again. 

Sam returns to a depth that he can remember his name. And what he’s done. 

Castiel’s grace is too bright to look at. Sam’s so tired he wants to sink. Sinking would be easier. He feels Lucifer stir, wrapped tight around him under his shirt. 

“Sam?” Dean calls, “c’mon Sam. I don’t know what I’m doing— Cas, it isn’t working— why won’t he wake up?”

“Keep going,” Cas’ quiet rumble, “he’s close. He can hear you.” 

Castiel sings a gentle note for Sam. Encouragement, strength. Sam lifts his heavy hands. They’re blistered from the cold. He grips the tether holding him to Dean, and drags himself up. 

Sam surfaces. 

* * *

Sam can’t see, can’t stand on his own, and so Cas helps Dean carry Sam to the impala and load him in the backseat. Sam feels Dean wrap him with blankets from the motel bed, Dean’s angry, snapping at Cas, he’s short with Sam, but he doesn’t go too far from Sam’s side. 

Sam feels the car start, the rumble of it under his skin. Feels the slide of Lucifer’s scales against his skin. 

They sleep. 

* * *

Dean abandons the case, takes them home to the bunker. Sam is in and out of consciousness the whole time. He fried his eyes again, and even his hearing is messed up. He feels like he’s underwater, or someone stuffed his head with cotton. His throat is raw, like he was screaming, but it’s burned from humming and whistling angel songs. 

“Did we do it?” he asks Lucifer. He can’t remember the end of the spell, before they got dragged down.

“We don’t know,” Lucifer admits, and his voice comes through clear, like he’s the only thing in Sam’s world that’s real right now, “it was so cold. It was like coming home.” 

* * *

Sam’s vision starts to return that evening. Not much, but he can make out some shapes in his immediate vicinity. He’s discerning light and dark, but not colors yet. 

“What were you thinking?” Dean demands. 

When Sam shrugs in response, Dean changes tactics. He’s pacing in Sam’s room, where Sam is propped up in bed. Sam can barely trace the movement because there’s a small shift in light when Dean passes in front of the open door where the hall light spills in. 

“So what happened? Who was the woman?” 

Amy called Dean on Sam’s phone. That’s how Dean found him. Amy was nowhere to be found when Dean arrived. The bed was torn apart, like some wild animal was thrashing around in pain on it. Sam was on the floor, unresponsive. Not a cut on him. Dean hasn’t mentioned his note, so Amy must have taken that too. Sam feels some hope that she was well enough to walk out on her own. He didn’t kill her. Or himself.

“I had the chance to save someone,” Sam rasps, “so I took it.” 

“It was a kitsune,” Cas reports. Sam hadn’t realized he was there, with the way Cas sits so silently and still. It makes him jump. 

He should really use his Sight, but Sam can still feel the chill of the deep in his bones, and he’s scared to go near his magic again right now. He stays blind. 

“A kitsune?” Dean echoes, and Sam hears the scuff of Dean’s boots as Dean turns to Sam, “was that what we were hunting? That’s who you—”

“What did you do?” Cas asks. 

Sam’s mouth is so dry, his throat is so raw. He wants tea with honey, or maybe some bourbon to soothe it. He wants to sleep, and he wants Dean to come sit near him because Sam wants the warmth of Dean’s soul to help thaw his bones. 

“If we tell him,” Lucifer whispers, “he’ll hate us. He can’t understand us.”

“It’s unfair that she has to be a monster,” Sam says.

“We’ve been over this,” Dean sighs, “besides, kitsune can’t transform people. They’re born that way. There’s no choice involved—” 

“She’s only a monster because she _has_ to eat people,” Sam stresses, “we tried to change that.” 

There’s silence for a moment. Sam wonders if it’s shock, or maybe Dean and Cas are reading the ‘we’ as Sam and Lucifer, rather than Sam and Amy. Sam’s not sure which one he meant. 

Surprisingly, it’s Castiel who breaks the silence, and he yells, “You attempted to change her base nature? What informs her?” 

“Hey,” Dean barks, a warning at Cas’ tone. 

“You idiot!” Cas shouts, “not even _angels_ have that kind of strength! That is the work of the divine to change what already is! And you, you thought _you_ had that power?” 

The lighting changes, and Sam has an inkling that Cas is setting off the bunkers lights. It would probably be intimidating if he could see it. He feels a wolfish growl from Lucifer, imagines the sharp teeth in response to a threat. 

“I survived,” Sam says. It’s all the wrong kinds of cocky. Maybe he should be ashamed of himself. 

“You didn’t survive,” Cas snaps, and even without trying Sam can hear the fury of his song as it fills the room, can almost see the inferno of Cas’ anger where his voice is coming from, “you stupid mortal— your pride will be your end—”

“Cas!” Dean shouts, “take a walk!” 

The firestorm bends, but does not relent. Cas’s signature vanishes, and Sam assumes he teleported out. 

A creature so ancient and destructive that heaven is currently up in arms about having it walk free, and Cas leaves because Dean told him to. Sam wonders if he should be impressed, but then again, Dean’s always had that kind of power. 

“You tried to make her not be a monster?” Dean finally asks. 

“Just tried to make it that she didn’t have to eat people. That she could choose,” Sam says. He finds the water bottle Dean set up for him, manages to drink a bit by holding it with both hands. His right hand aches, and Sam recalls Lucifer’s fangs biting through his palm. 

“You can do that?” Dean asks. 

Sam shrugs, “I don’t know. But I had to try.”

Dean’s quiet, and Sam hears him sigh heavily, “I don’t know, man. Changing monsters into— I don’t know, still monsters? But with options? It sounds dangerous.”

If Sam had the energy he would gesture at himself. Of course it’s dangerous. He’s well aware.

“It also sounds like the kind of thing angels are gonna notice,” Dean says. 

Sam shakes his head, “I’m warded, and I didn’t use grace—” 

“Whatever it was, it was enough that Cas could feel it,” Dean says, “he dropped in right after I found you.”

“Cas knows my pattern,” Sam reasons, “he would have noticed my weaving style.”

“If it was enough for him to feel it, I’m sure other angels could. And considering how pissed he just got, I bet the other angels are even angrier about it. And you know how shitty heaven gets when they’re mad about something.” 

Does Amy know to be careful? Did Sam cloak her, or is she still giving off his scent? Can the angels track her? Did Sam just put a target on her back? 

“Don’t you _ever_ do that again,” Dean orders. 

Sam shakes his head, “Dean, if it— if it worked— this might be it. Maybe I can save them—”

“It’s not up to you to save them!” Dean shouts, and Sam’s almost blinded again when Dean’s soul flares up, “Sam, this psychic shit is freaking me out. This isn’t the first time you’ve almost _died_ from it, and now you’re sneaking off to do shit in secret, and I wouldn’t have been there until it was too late unless that kitsune called to tell me you were dying!” 

“I’m sorry,” Sam mumbles. 

There’s a tense silence between them now. Sam can see where he misstepped. Despite wanting to do good, he’s fucked things up again because he went behind Dean’s back. He didn’t mean to do it like that, but... maybe Sam can’t help but do things the wrong way. Like he always does. But Dean knows where the line is. He has to trust that Dean will tell him when to stop. 

“I was worried you would kill her,” Sam admits, “that’s why I didn’t tell you.” 

Dean doesn’t argue that he wouldn’t. 

“If you’d talked to me…” Dean tries, “I’m trying to listen, I am.”

And it’s true, Dean has changed so much already, for Sam. Because of Sam. Changed their hunting habits, changed their sleeping habits and patterns, changed their eating because a healthy diet is supposed to help Sam recover, changed how they talk and handle things in general. What was it Lucifer said? Corruption, change, works best over time. When the subject changes themself, and gives in to the temptation they offer. Sam keeps promising things will be easier, that they’ll be happier, that he’ll be healthier, and Dean keeps changing for him. 

“It’s our gift,” Lucifer reminds Sam. 

Sam shushes him gently. He’s sure that Dean heard it, recognizes that Sam’s talking to his imaginary friend again. 

“I couldn’t risk it,” Sam says, “she has… she doesn’t normally kill, she’s good, but she has a kid. He’s sick, he has to have fresh… food. So that’s why we tried. Because if I can change her, then… then maybe I can change him too. I can save them.” 

“Sam you can’t do this again,” Dean pleads, “this was too close a call.” 

“If it worked for her, if I can give her kid a safe future, then I have to try, don’t I?” Sam reasons, “I’ll do it with you and Cas there next time. He can help— I’ve gone into the heavy stuff with him before, he can make it easier. And you can call me back if it gets too bad.” 

The bed shifts as Dean sits down, “Sam you scared the shit out of me. I almost lost you, and I can’t— I can’t do it again.”

Sam reaches out towards Dean’s voice, feels Dean’s arm, follows it down to find his hand. Dean meets him halfway. Does Dean recognize how different this is already? How, even a year ago, they wouldn’t be talking like this. They’d be yelling, throwing things. Dean would potentially lock Sam in his room, try to pin him down and control him to protect him from himself. It’s what Dad would have done. It’s the only way they knew how to be. 

Right up until Sam was too strong to take any more of Dad’s bullshit. And Dean had to readjust. Most people aren’t strong enough to change like Dean did. Does Dean know how good he is? Would he believe it if Sam told him? 

“I feel like my powers came back for a reason,” Sam says, “and maybe— maybe it was all leading up to this. That I can help everything that’s been forced to be a monster, that if they want, I can give them the chance to be more than what the world thinks they are. I can give them a chance, Dean. Shouldn’t I take it?”

“Not if it gets you killed,” Dean insists, “I thought you were gone, Sam. Cas had to keep telling me to call you back, something about anchors or some shit, and I thought you were dead, or dying in my arms again—” 

“But I didn’t,” Sam reminds him, “and if I did it safer, next time. If we plan for it better, then maybe— maybe I can save the ones who really need saving.” 

“I don’t understand this magic stuff,” Dean admits, “you and Cas start talking and it’s like you’re speaking another language. I don’t know what to even do—”

“Just be here,” Sam says, and tightens his grip. Dean squeezes back, “you’re my anchor. As long as you're around I can come back to you. That’s all you have to do.”

Dean's quiet a second before he says, "Are you telling me I've got the fifth element? Seriously? The power of fucking heart or whatever?"

“Without you I wouldn’t have made it back,” Sam admits, “you’re the most important part of this."

"I'm being reduced to a fucking care bear," Dean whines, "that's it, magic stuff is done. I'm pulling the plug."

Sam laughs softly, but this needs to be said, "I want to do this, Dean. And I think I can. But… I promised that if you said to stop, that I would. So it… it’s your call.” 

Dean groans, “That’s a—”

“Talk to Cas if you need to,” Sam urges, and grimaces, “although he, uh, I think he’s against this.”

“He’d do it if I ask,” Dean says heavily. 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. 

“So I can’t ask him to do it,” Dean admits, “you’ll have to talk to him about this.” 

Because they still don’t know if Cas can say no to Dean, if he’s conditioned, or primed, that he _has_ to agree with and follow Dean because of what he is. 

“Are you okay?” Sam checks, “you and Cas… since…” 

“Dude, you were basically dead this morning,” Dean deflects, “you don’t get to check in on me right now.” 

Sam gives up the fight, “Sure, fine.”

“You need anything else?” Dean asks, signaling that he’s going to leave. 

Sam tightens his grip on Dean’s hand, “Can you— I’m not ready to be alone yet.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate, “Yeah, okay you big baby. Want me to read you a story too?” 

Sam doesn’t bother fighting the insult, “That'd be great, Grumpy Bear.” 

Dean snorts, shoving Sam over so he can fit onto the bed with him. Sam wiggles down so he can rest his head on Dean’s hip. He feels like a cat sleeping in a beam of sunlight. It’s decadent, just how lovely Dean’s soul is when he shows his love. Lucifer curls over Sam’s ribs, a welcome weight to help pin him down while he can’t see the rest of the world. 

“You’re so clingy,” Dean says like it’s a problem. Sam hums a response. 

He falls asleep listening to Dean reading whatever book was within reach, and with the feeling of his fingers in Sam’s hair. 

* * *

Sam wakes in the night. His lights are off, and so he can’t tell how much vision he’s recovered when he opens his eyes. He feels hands on his arm, lifting it for inspection. Something’s crawling under his skin, like it wants to get out. It’s hungry. Lucifer is a snake coiled on his chest. 

“This magic from the trials,” Cas says softly, hands soft around Sam’s wrist, “it’s very old. Older than angels. Close to divine.” 

He releases Sam’s arm. Sam lets it drop so he can lay his hand on Lucifer’s scales. His arms light up with the intricate runes and weaves of the trial magic, the likes of which Sam has never seen before. If Sam builds magic like stitching threads together, and Cas sings magic like it’s light and sound, this is… _taste_. This is a body high. This old magic doesn’t work like anything Sam’s ever encountered. 

“It’s the only reason you survived,” Castiel says. 

“Thanks for showing up,” Sam says. Cas has been pretty busy avoiding heaven while he finishes removing all of the restraints that heaven grafted into him over a millennia. As far as Sam understands it’s very painful, and requires a lot of magic and grace to do. Not-coincidentally, there’s been a record number of hurricanes this year and unexpected meteor showers all over the globe.

Cas lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl, “You were reckless, thinking you could improve the design of the Almighty himself.” 

“Maybe he should have done better in the first place,” Sam challenges. 

“Are you saying that He makes mistakes?” Cas asks. He sounds ready to put Sam in his place. 

Sam waits a moment for Cas to hear himself, and then can’t help but laugh. He and Cas are the biggest fuckups in the universe, Gods personal mistakes, and they know it. 

“He’s either incompetent, or he’s a dick,” Sam figures, “either way, I have to try and give people a chance.” 

“Dean isn’t against this?” Cas checks. 

Sam thinks back to his and Cas’ conversation about how to know when to stop, when they’re both made to ruin. If Dean draws the line, they can’t cross it. Because neither of them are capable of knowing where the line is. 

“He thinks a little rebellion can be good,” Sam says. 

Cas does laugh at that. A quiet, sad sound. 

“If it worked… if you did change this kitsune, then you have created something completely new,” Cas reasons, and he goes deadly serious when he says, “the last act of true creation was when Lucifer made Lilith. The first demon.” 

“A legacy,” Lucifer whispers. 

“ _If_ it worked,” Sam agrees. 

“If you close the gates of hell, if I am successful in closing the gates to heaven,” Cas pauses, like maybe he shouldn’t say this next bit, and he whispers quietly, like saying it too loud will draw scorn, “if you can redeem monsters… we may yet make paradise on earth.” 

Sam hadn’t— he hadn’t thought about that. He’s been so focused on Amy, on just saving Amy, and maybe her son, he hadn’t considered that— this could be it. This could be the good he can do. To go from ending the world, to saving it, to _truly_ giving people, monsters, everyone free will. 

He chokes up. 

“Do you think we can?” Cas asks. 

Is Sam capable of doing good in the world? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if it will all come crumbling down, because if he’s the base of it, then it _can’t_ be good, simply because of who he is. 

Dean isn’t against this. Dean knows where the line is. If they trust Dean, then they can trust they’re doing the right thing. 

“We can try,” Sam says, tentative, quiet, “we can try.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [rings a gong] and welcome to!! a (semblance of a) plot!!
> 
> The story title (The Love It Takes) To Exist Again, is very much in reference to Sam choosing not to be ashamed of who/what he is, and to embrace the "otherness" of himself that he's resented and tried to deny for his whole life. Unlike Dean, who's central conflict is more 'who am I when I'm not trying to be someone else?', Sam has always been his own man, but that independence/individuality leads to 'do I deserve to be alive?'. This is my first time writing plots that are so incredibly not-plotty, and far more character driven, but here we gooo!!!! 
> 
> (I say here we go, like we aren't 2 more chapters away from the end... it's more 'here we go: you can finally pinpoint the threads i've been knitting through this whole story as they finally become a lumpy sock this chapter'!)
> 
> As for the conversation re: Sam and Dean's sexualities, have a hilarious image that I probably won't be able to write: While Dean is, obvi, the queer-identifying brother, he's also The Biggest Projector and in the back of my mind I like to imagine scenarios where Dean meets people and wants to learn more about being queer... so he tells everyone that Sam is "the gay brother" which results in Sam having to be, as he describes it, "queer in solidarity". 
> 
> Lastly, Dean's power of heart is canon as far as I'm concerned. The show goes out of it's way to display all the different ways Dean draws in Supernatural/monstrous characters who want his approval/affection!! It's because he's all heart baybee! And also because I know for a fact that Dean would HATE to find out his secret superpower is the 5th Element and therefore it's very funny.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELCOME BACK!! We're in the endgame now.
> 
> Huge, warm thank-you's to everyone who's taken some time to leave a comment <33 y'all are the bomb and I adore you big lots!! Your feedback thrills my heart, so thank you!!!
> 
> BEST NEWS: **ART**
> 
> More beautiful, ambitious art from tumblr user [rowingviolahere](https://rowingviolahere.tumblr.com/) slash ao3 user [Magpied_Spider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpied_Spider/pseuds/Magpied_Spider), see [Sam and Snake!Lucifer strike a pose. And there's TUBE WORMS!!](https://rowingviolahere.tumblr.com/post/643900963877437440/ive-been-thinking-of-snakey-lucifer-wrapping) Go give this art some serious love!!!!!!
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter: we're getting into some violence! There's nothing here technically beyond what the show has done, but there's some fighting and some bodily beat-downs with vaguely-graphic depictions (ie: mentioning bones breaking, spitting blood).

Second trial. 

Rescue an innocent soul from hell. Deliver it to heaven. Dean and Sam found a backdoor in, but Sam is running this mission solo. 

Crowley’s onto him. 

The infernal bells ring in every level of Hell, and wreak havoc on Sam’s preternatural senses. The ringing threatens to dredge up all of the memories he’s kept separate from himself. In the back of his mind, Sam hears Lucifer whimpering as the dissonant tones try to break them down. 

Somewhere, deep, deep down in the bowels of hell, Sam knows the cage shakes as the real Lucifer flings himself at the walls of it. He can imagine the true Lucifer calling out to him. Feels it like a hook in his mouth, waiting until he’s too tired from resisting to pull him in.

It scares him like nothing else has. 

Bela Talbot is shocked to see Sam in hell, but nowhere as shocked as Sam is that she’s still human. Sam drags her soul to Purgatory, but the reaper doesn’t return to take them home. 

Dean warned Sam about Purgatory, how it gets into your head and strips away anything unnecessary. How it hones you into a fighting edge.

The influence Purgatory has on his mind isn’t exactly like losing his soul, but it feels similar. 

Lucifer never shows, but Sam hears his voice, until he realizes it’s just Sam’s own thoughts.

Benny, Dean’s friend the vampire, shows up just in time to same Sam and Bela from a pack of purgatory nightmare monsters. It’s funny— he fights like Dean. Or maybe Dean picked up stuff from him. 

Benny’s kind of hot. Like, not that he’d turn Sam’s head on the street, but the casual way he handles his blade, his cool confidence and the way he winks at Sam and Bela when he shows up to save their asses? Hot. 

Sam never thought he had a _type_ when it came to guys-- his type when he was soulless was ‘dtf’, but Benny makes him reconsider. Maybe Dean’s bi thing is contagious. Maybe Benny would be interested in sticking around for a bit, once this is all said and done?

There isn’t much time to talk. Benny and Sam both have people to return to, and Sam leaps out of Purgatory with not one but _two_ souls under his skin. 

Crowley wants to stop him. Naomi intervenes. She promises to be a friend. Bela goes to heaven. 

Second Trial, complete. 

The divine magic burrows into the core of Sams bones, feels like it feeds on the marrow itself. The runes on Sam’s arms ignite, brighter than ever before. He tastes sulfides and iron and heat where life started in the dark abyss of the ocean.

Naomi pleads with Sam to turn over Castiel. To influence him to return to bondage. It’s still not too late. 

Sam threatens to shoot her again. 

* * *

They still haven’t heard from Amy. 

When they look into it, she abandoned her job and her life where they found her. She’s in the wind with no way to contact her. 

“She knows our phone numbers,” Sam reasons, “she’ll reach out if it worked.” 

“But she hasn’t,” Dean reminds him, “maybe she’s trying to tell you it didn’t.”

* * *

Having Cas kicked out of heaven means that Sam gets used to Cas being around at night on Hunts. By habit, Dean and Sam always rent a single room, two beds. As he always does on hunts these days, Dean sleeps on top of the blankets, arms crossed, and ready to fight at a moments notice. 

Now, Sam wakes in the night sometimes to see Cas sitting on Dean’s bed. Some nights he’s quietly sitting guard, and other times he’s leaning back against the headboard reading or going through their notes on the case. Dean always turns in his sleep to face Cas. It’s kind of cute. 

On one occasion Sam came back late from some research at the library, and Dean has already passed out. Cas is there, but Sam can barely see them through the cloud of Castiel’s wings covering the two of them. How sickly sweet. 

At the sound of the door clicking shut, every single one of the weird eyes on Castiel’s wings opens and stares straight at Sam. And keep staring at him as Sam crosses the room to his side. 

“Dude, that is _so_ creepy,” Sam hisses. He gets no response, just the continued unblinking stare from hundreds of eyes, and so he retreats to the bathroom to get changed. 

* * *

Sam crumples the wrapper and attempts to lob it into the garbage can from across the kitchen. It falls short, and he sighs in disappointment. He's about to start walking, to clean up his failure, when he has a better idea.

He's trying to get rid of the tell, but it's easier to focus his energies when he reaches out a hand like he's directing his focus through his palm. He imagines his energy flowing through the demonic fauna on his arm, like a mycorrhizal network that lights up as his energy moves through it. Sam closes his eyes a moment to let his Sight take over, drawing on his own energy and feeling the weight of the world around him. When he reaches out, past his physical body, he can feel the way the room shifts in his senses. Threads of light interconnect to every living thing, every molecule of air, every atom of space, in the entire world in the kitchen here today. 

Sam takes those threads, weaves them into shapes. Mentally he recites _knit one, purl one,_ to focus as he pulls in the threads and creates an Intention with them. Curious bits of light, like little worms, peek out of the demonic garden in his arm.

Sam's Intention thoughts touch on the edge of the granola bar wrapper, and he forces a Definition of it, collecting the threads in his focus to weave around the Definition. He thinks of Bobby’s lumpy knitted squares, pictures himself making a lumpy square made of the wrapper. He collects what is Like, and sets that opposing to what is Unlike the world around it, and once he's drawn those lines, he can Act on it.

Sam opens his physical eyes to see the wrapper shift on the floor. He holds his breath, almost fearful that it was disturbed by a draft than otherworldly powers. And then it shifts again, ruffles like it's skittish, and lifts less than a foot into the air. It's shaky— precision work like this is difficult, versus broad strokes like throwing things around. (Sam does have an appreciation for why poltergeists just throw things instead of writing detailed messages about their anger). But rather than be a brute, Sam wants mastery over this second coming of his powers. 

When Cas will practice this with him, usually tossing something light like an empty can around, the stark differences in their control make Sam envious of Castiel’s fine control. 

Sam tries to hold the wrapper steady, move it in a line a few feet off the floor, and to drop it in the trash. Dean's voice carries ahead, giving Sam only seconds before his brother bursts in on the scene and breaks his concentration. The wrapper dips, and Sam struggles to catch it again, to keep it Identified and Unlike the space around it, to hold the threads clear in his minds eye as he makes it the last inches to the open bin. 

"Sammy!" Dean shouts, and Sam hisses a curse as he loses his mental grip and the wrapper flutters to the floor. The weaves fall apart, and the curious worms flee into the safety of Sam’s soul, hiding away from the interruption.

"Oh, sorry, I mean Mathilda," Dean laughs. 

Sam feels something like winded, but in his head, so he gives Dean a middle finger salute rather than an answer.

Cas disregards the entire conversation, marching forwards in that weird way he moves where he doesn’t move his arms, or much else, other than his legs. They’re still working on teaching him to look more normal. Sam sees his eyes trace the invisible path Sam took the wrapper on. 

"What did you do?" Cas asks, and he's staring at the wrapper like it will answer him.

"Not much," Sam shrugs, and he's feeling just a little proud so he brags, "moved it a few feet, no sweat."

Dean makes his way to the fridge for a beer. 

"So you're using your weird mumbo jumbo for garbage? You can sort the recycling next." 

"I'm just practicing," Sam snaps. 

Castiel nods, like this is a logical answer. He walks forwards to pick up the wrapper and brings it back to Sam, cradling it in his hands like it’s a living thing, "Your fine control on the pattern is shaky. Did you have trouble due to the composition of the molecules in the garbage being too similar to the surroundings?"

"It was tricky to keep it Defined," Sam agrees, "I thought it was because it was across the room from me."

"That could be part of it," Castiel holds out the wrapper to Sam in his open palm, "distance is an unfortunate limitation to these physical planes. But your powers are only limited so far as you limit yourself."

They've been over this a few times. Apparently Sam thinks "too human" and once he figures out how not to think like that, Castiel thinks Sam can stop being so pathetic. He'd said it in much nicer terms, but that's what Sam thinks he means. How Sam’s supposed to not think like a human? Sam’s not clear on that. 

"I should have known you two would be weird about this stuff," Dean rolls his eyes at them. He settles in, leaning against the counter, and pops the tab on his beer can.

"You're just jealous 'cause you don't have cool powers," Sam reminds him. 

Dean grimaces, "Oh yeah, really jealous of how you can throw out the trash while looking super constipated."

Sam's warmed up, and he's not going for fine control, so it's not too hard to reach out, Define and feel it as Unlike Dean's hand, and to Act on his beer. And by Act, Sam knocks it up and out of Dean's hand with a blunt thought.

"Hey!" Dean shouts as his beer launches a good two feet out of his hands, and he scrambles to catch it out of the air. He ends up sending it spinning, and beyond his reach.

Sam sees Cas glance up at him, an amused look on his face as his eyes light up with grace, and then Sam feels Castiel's grace race along his own thoughts as Castiel Acts on Sam's action. Sam feels Castiel's grace like lightning and lullabies, like the aftershock of a bright light on the back of his eyelids both formed and formless, as Cas catches Dean's doomed beer, returns all the stray drops of foam and spilled liquid before they hit the floor, and gently brings it back to Dean's hand.

"Okay," Sam laughs, and he feels a little thrilled in a scared way. Cas is just so cool and so inhuman sometimes, it's terrifying, "show me how to do that."

"I agreed to let you practice your psycho shit because you wanted to be sure you were in control of yourself, not for messing around," Dean snaps.

He's just cranky because he's realized that Sam can kick his ass at pranks now. 

"Your beer didn't even spill," Sam rolls his eyes, "calm down."

"You're welcome," Castiel adds.

Dean softens at Cas's voice. Sam used to think it was delightful, just how much Dean likes Cas, and was starting to show it. Now he's come to realize that his brother should go back to being emotionally repressed because he's gross and sappy any time Cas so much as looks at him. 

* * *

The deep magic from the trials is _powerful_. It’s not… it’s not addictive, not like demon blood, but Sam feels a similar confidence. He feels powerful. He feels mighty and like a reckoning on the injustice of the world. 

Lucifer likes his snake form more and more, so he can stay close to Sam, to feel Sam’s heartbeat. Sam wonders if this is a sign of him accepting himself, that he allows his other nature this close. Lucifer wraps around Sam’s wrists, deep in the garden of demonic lineage Sam carries, and as close to the old magic as he can get. 

What had Cas called the old magic? Close to divine?

Sam wonders if this is the closest Lucifer has felt to his father’s touch in hundreds of millions of years. Sam wonders why he cares about that.

Why does it make him sad? 

* * *

_The dream of drowning returns. Blood in the water. One hand: bites, the other: heals. Monstrous shapes circle Sam as he sinks into the depths._

* * *

Angel civil war, okay, maybe was a little more serious than Sam thought it was. Maybe they should have waited for Cas before charging into this one. 

To be fair, they’d only known things were weird. They hadn’t realized it was _angel_ weird when they’d gone in. That had only become apparent after the fact.

“We’ll cut the stench of you from this world,” the angel snarls, and she’s saying more about how Sam and Dean are a poison that tarnishes all angels, that their connection to the Corruption that is Castiel spits in the face of God and some other insults, but she’s punching Sam in the face with every other word and it’s hard to keep track of her argument when his face is fracturing. 

“Eat me!” Sam bites back, but with his nose broken there’s so much blood in his mouth— is he losing teeth? Everything is white pain— and his words are a gargled mess.

Even through it all, Sam hears a sickening _crunch_ and it’s not one of his limbs, it has to be Dean, because Dean screams, and that’s enough to kick Sam’s brain into gear. He’s stupid from trauma, and activates his Sight to aid him. They’re surrounded by freaking angels, and so he almost goes blind at the radiant display of their true forms looming high and crashing down over him. There’s no art to his Action, just the Definition of Him and Dean and Everything Else and Sam roots him and his brother in place and Acts against the Everything Else. 

The element of surprise works for him. He doesn’t think the angels are expecting this. Sam slices through the grace pinning Dean, turns their notes flat and breaks the amplitude of their wavelength. He throws the angels back, their forms twisting in on themselves like blowing on ashes to start a fire. Dean collapses with a whimper, immediately tries to stand because it’s always better to die on your feet. Sam stands guard over him, tries to pull up a fortress of psychic barbs around him and Dean, for as long as that will last. He can’t weave fast enough to pull concrete or rebar around them into a physical barrier, so mental is all they have. Where’s Lucifer when Sam needs those angel-blasting spells? Sam can’t even remember the right pitch to whistle to try and ignite the like he did to Naomi that one time. 

Sam has a fleeting thought, that maybe the angel has punched him hard enough that maybe Sam’s brain has snapped back into alignment. That would be the way he would get himself fixed. 

The angels recover from Sam’s surprise hit, sing a battle hymn to sharpen their grace into weapons, and spring forwards with both vessel and true selves and shatter through Sam’s defenses like freight trains. In the same way just touching Cas’ grace too deeply almost wrecked Sam before, Sam feels their attack like needles through his skull. Rather than being dragged down into the dark old magic where angel grace resonates, he feels like a tsunami crashes on his head. He’s disoriented, mentally spinning ass over teakettle, and feels himself physically drop to his knees. 

There’s an answering sound of a hurricane, the _crack_ of an avalanche beginning its run, and Castiel apparates into the fight mid-swing: his long overcoat flared out like a cape behind him and dangerous short sword held in a reverse grip. 

Cas gets pushed around a lot, Sam finds, because he’s often taking on huge entities that Sam and Dean have managed to piss off, or, Cas is trying _not_ to kill his opponent. Or all the times Cas had no grace left, and was trying to fight like he was all powerful. It’s made it so that Sam kind of thinks of Cas as a bit of a wimp, and that what he does is buy Sam and Dean time to set up banishment spells or some other means of escape. 

It’s in this moment that Sam is reminded of what a warrior he is. 

Castiel’s true form lashes out, arms where Sam didn’t expect arms, and he’s seeing sunspots from looking at all of the angels. He sees Cas grab and bend and twist until the other angel's wing _snaps_ and the sound of it is like a sonic boom that knocks both Sam and Dean onto their asses. Cas is so much bigger, so much more magnificent than the other angels. His grace used to flow like a rolling wave, held in check by his restraints, and now that he’s free it’s feral and wild like a perfect storm. Castiel’s grace _sings_ with a fighting song, a call for violence, and it’s so sharp that the song itself is like knives. It stings Sam’s already sore mind, and the magic around Castiel comes alive like a swirling shield of blades. 

What did Lucifer say about seraphim? They’re war dogs, shock troops. Made for destruction. Cas seems to be living up to the name. 

Sam’s never used awful and terrific in their original forms, but now that he’s seeing Cas compared to the others he’s finding new appreciation for the words. Castiel never was an angel, and he’s finally free of the bindings they put on him. He is ancient and horrifying. He is terrific, as one who inspires terror.

Castiel’s vessel moves after his true self has, like the body is the ripple, the afterthought, of his real motions, and he parries and swipes with his angel blade, making cuts into the other vessel. Funny, Sam thinks, some of the steps, the motions-- they look like how Dean moves. How Benny fought in Purgatory.

Another angel leaps onto Castiel’s back, blade ready. One of Castiel’s heads turns and Sam sees a mouth, sees teeth fine and infinite enough to split atoms, to trap light, and he sees Cas bite into the other angel in a way Sam’s only ever seen demons or leviathans fight. Their grace convulses together, layered and beautiful like the rings of a planet, and the wail that the angel lets out is so low that Sam doesn’t hear it so much as he feels it, so deep into his core that he thinks it’s going to shake all of his guts loose. It rattles his brain stupid, and Sam drops his Sight. 

Maybe he blacks out for a second, because next there’s bright light and one of the angels has a silver angel blade through Cas’ body, above his hip, and Cas is shooting out light from the wound. Sam hears Dean shout beside him, and then Cas flips his blade in his hand, stabs back, and catches the other angel right between the ribs. 

The death explosion is too bright, Sam has to close his eyes. By the time he can see again, Cas has forced the other angels back. Sam doesn’t need to be psychic to feel the energy and power radiating behind each blow. 

“Dean?” Sam checks, but it doesn’t come out as a real word. There’s too much blood in his mouth, right, he forgot. He tries to spit it out, to clear his mouth enough to speak, but there’s so much. He feels Dean’s hand against him, a light hit, but it affirms _still kicking_. 

They need to run. Cas is holding them off, but it’s still two against one, and Sam and Dean have to get to the car and get out of here to survive and— 

Cas gets stabbed again. Sam’s never felt so helpless. But the attack gives Cas his opening, and he takes out the second angel. The third stands alone, and vanishes with the sound shrill like a kettle screaming. 

Cas stands ready for a second, his vessel poised with sword ready, his gracesong swirling loudly to fill the space around them. Another attack doesn’t seem to be coming. 

And now that it’s safe, Sam feels all of the broken bones in his body, the blood loss making him dizzy, and he decides that maybe he’ll wait to stand up for after Cas has healed him. Dean seems to be of the same mindset, he’s practically laying on the ground and—wait, oh, Sam forgot they broke Dean’s leg. 

Sam opens his mouth to tell Cas to hurry up, that Dean needs healing, when a high note, water crystallizing in the stratosphere, cuts clear through his senses and stuns him. Cas falters a moment, distorted by the noise, and then there’s one, two, four, six—a whole battalion of angels! 

Four of them strike Castiel bodily, with a hit that shakes the dust from the rafters of the warehouse, shatters the windows outwards and sets off car alarms in the area. Cas’ form flails, hard enough that his vessel is knocked from his grip and lands like a corpse. 

“Cas!” Dean shouts. And he’s trying to push himself up now. 

Sam hears a chorus of songs, enochian and _before_ language, and the songs are lullabies, are chants and choruses, splendid and strong and he watches as the angels fight to keep Castiel pinned as the songs are woven around all pieces of him. 

This was a trap.

If the angels had wanted Sam and Dean dead, it would have been easy to kill them and be done with it. But they didn’t They spent their time beating them stupid instead. Because Sam and Dean were the bait.

This was a trap for heaven to recapture Cas, to take him back to heaven in chains. 

Sam’s furious enough that he can pull his Sight back to himself, immerse himself in the truth of the world, beyond what a human can sense. The angels are restraining Cas. Sam should be able to help, but how?

Naomi’s vessel appears in front of Sam, heels clicking as she lands on the floor. She studies him carefully. Her form and grace seem tender, weaker, in the areas where Sam burned her. He thinks he can See scar tissue.

“We have no quarrel with you,” she says, “you were simply bait to retrieve the Abomination. Once he is subdued you will be healed and sent on your way. Stay down.” 

Dean gurgles an insult. Sam bares his teeth at her. 

She narrows her eyes, and gives him a snarl to match, “You surprised me last time, boy. I should have expected it—you spent enough time with the Morningstar to learn his tricks.” 

Sam lifts his gun at her, an empty threat because he has no idea where Lucifer is and he’s the one who knows all the spells to hurt angels but Naomi doesn’t know that. With a quick nod of her chin she snaps Sam’s wrist.

Sam screams and doubles over. Most of his sound comes out as blood. 

He sees the toes of her shoes in the edge of his vision.

“A curious human,” Naomi muses, “or… _are_ you even still—” 

Castiel bucks violently, managing to bite down on the fluttering grace of an angel, and he shakes it like a ragdoll. It’s the brilliant flash of gracelight, exposed from the ripped wound, and the angel’s dying shriek that captures Naomi’s attention. 

“Don’t let him escape!” she shouts, and she races to aid the other angels. 

Cas almost pulls himself away, but they’re lancing spells into him like he’s a whale being hunted down. Despite the size and the fury of him, there are too many angels for Cas to handle on his own. 

If they could just cut the lines pinning him, Cas might stand a chance at getting away. Sam sits upright, clutching his wrist to his stomach. He breathes through the pain. He can still See. He’s clinging to his Sight, as something to focus on other than the pain.

The angels are strengthening their songs, the spells become tighter chains. Cas sings to try and tear them apart, and for every two he breaks, three new songs are cast around him. Naomi has drawn a lance that looks very similar to the pieces of the halo Sam once saw embedded in Castiel’s head. 

They’re gonna try and lobotomize him again. To take away everything who Castiel is, and force him to be a loyal dog. To take away his choice to _exist_.

Not on Sam’s watch. 

Dean’s leg is busted, he can’t run. Sam pushes himself to his feet, lurches from blood loss and pain. He won’t be conscious for much longer he thinks. But that’s okay. All he has to do is give Cas a chance. 

The angels keep underestimating him. It’s the only advantage he has. 

His wrist is broken, he can’t use his hand to focus his thoughts, so Sam takes as deep a breath he can with all the blood in his mouth. He centers himself. The angels are singing their magic weaves as fast as they can, but they haven’t been able to get Castiel to stop singing his sharp shield song. So their songs are being stripped down, worn down by Castiel’s storm of broken glass, almost as fast as they can build them. They aren’t wasting time building intricate songs, just ones coarse enough to get the job done. In harmony, with all of them together, it’s enough to hold Cas. 

Sam doesn’t need finesse to deconstruct them. All he needs is a good angle. He thinks of feedback from a mic, hearing the screech through speakers sharp enough to hurt. He thinks of off-key notes in band class, and nails dragging on a chalkboard. Ruby’s influence, the demonic network cultivated in his arm, is made for maiming. It vents black smoke like a train engine, warming up for an uphill charge. He draws his magic through it, honing the weave to the sharpest edge he can muster. The old trial magic in his bones _hums_. The spell is a racehorse at the starting line, the revving of engines before the light changes.

This is concentrated, hot enough to burn like enochian, and Sam holds it as long as he can, builds the power, before he releases the spell like firing an arrow from the loaded bow of his tongue. It burns his mouth like he swallowed an ember, and Sam recoils from the strength of it. 

It cuts through an entire line of angelic chords before losing integrity and falling apart. The angels are startled, unprepared for the attack. 

Castiel seizes the opportunity, and he rears back: terrible, glorious and ferocious. He leaps over the battalion but away from Sam and Dean—right, his vessel. He needs it to interact with them. The angel battalion recovers, Naomi shouting orders, and the harpoons and spells stuck into Castiel’s essence are pulled taut as the angels try to get him under control again. 

Cas reaches with his grace, stretches out. And for a moment Sam doesn’t think he’s going to be able to do it, it won’t work—but he sinks a sliver of himself into his vessel. Sam hears Naomi snarl in frustration, hears her spit several bladed enochian words to cut Castiel’s vessel from him.

Sam focuses again, hears the hiss of demonic intent as smoke pours off of him. His mouth is raw, the blood boils on his tongue as he sounds off bullets. He strikes Naomi’s spells like shooting birds in flight.

Naomi’s words miss their target. 

The sound of wings, and Cas’s vessel is crouched over Sam and Dean. He’s glowing from the stab wounds, “We have to go,” and he grabs Sam and Dean and _shoves_ and— 

“What the—” Bobby shouts as Sam flies five feet back, knocking into Bobby’s couch with his head. He shouts, more in surprise than pain, and as he’s doing so the frozen electricity of Castiel’s grace is surging through him, and Sam’s wounds are miraculously healed. 

Dean’s tangled in Sam’s legs, and only manages to get himself onto his hands and knees as he orients himself _and_ catches up to no longer having broken limbs or any other pains. 

“Cas?” Dean barks. 

“What is going on?” Bobby shouts. 

Castiel leans onto the doorway of the livingroom for support. He looks ragged. There are barbs sticking out of him, pulled taut to the location hours away where the angelic battalion _yanks_ at him.

“They’re getting reinforcements— I’ll take care of it,” Cas says, and gives them a lop-sided grin, with enough teeth to it that it’s more like a snarl. There’s red blood in his mouth, but his eyes are fantastically blue with grace. All at once Sam understands why Castiel would have been the angel chosen to lay siege to Hell to save his brother's soul. 

“Cas!” Dean shouts, and there’s probably more he means to say, but Castiel is gone. 

There’s silence for a beat. Sam’s brain catches up that the fight is over, that he’s safe now, and he sags back against the couch behind him. 

“Now that you’re done bleeding out on my floor,” Bobby says, “you idjits mind telling me what the hell just happened?” 

* * *

Cas didn’t have time to clean them off, so Sam and Dean spend the next fifteen minutes covered in their own blood— Sam thinks he finds pieces of his own tooth in his shirt— and giving Bobby a quick rundown while the three of them race around the house to put up emergency warding. 

After half an hour the blood is getting tacky and itchy, and Bobby complains that they’ve tracked it all over his house. 

After an hour Sam and Dean trade off having fast showers and changing into clothes they’ve left at Bobby’s over the years. 

“I don’t think they’re coming,” Sam says, three hours later. 

“So where’s Cas?” Dean asks, “he said they were coming back with reinforcements. What if he’s in trouble?” 

“He was kind of awesome,” Sam admits, and notices the way Dean’s jaw is clenched so tight he’s grinding his teeth so Sam changes tactics, “but I’m sure he’ll be okay. Cas is tough.” 

Dean looks at Sam, and Sam backs up his claim, “He’s scrappy, and a fighter. Just give him some time.” 

* * *

When an angel attack doesn’t seem to be happening, Bobby makes them clean up all of the blood stains they smeared around in the early panic. It’s some mindless work, which is kind of nice because then they aren’t sitting around waiting to hear from Cas. Dean texts him a few times, and his all of his calls go to voicemail. 

Since he’s got the supplies out, Sam keeps cleaning. He tries tidying up Bobby’s mess, and only gets scolded for some of it. Most of Bobby’s mess is some weird form of organization that only Bobby understands, but Sam tries to dust and pick up all the candy wrappers or empties he and Dean have left behind in their visits. 

Dean ends up scrubbing down the kitchen. He cleans out the fridge, yells at Bobby for keeping shit in there long enough for it to gain sentience. He snaps at Sam for getting Bobby into white claws because now Bobby never has proper beer anymore. 

Dean is in the middle of scrubbing grime off of the oven elements when Sam hears it. Like in a cartoon, when something drops from a high height. It’s a whistle, getting lower and lower in tone. He pauses in the kitchen doorway, unsure if what he’s hearing is real or not.

“Dean—” he starts, and then the glass in all of the cars on Bobby’s lot blows out in a deafening crash that feels like it shakes the earth. Sam and Dean hit the floor, Bobby’s shouting from upstairs. Sam stays low, is just ahead of Dean to run for the front room to look outside and—

It’s Cas. 

Dean doesn’t hesitate, and is out the front door in an instant. Sam is right behind him, and pauses on the porch. 

Cas’ vessel is standing further back, some twenty feet from the porch. That’s not like him— and their wards shouldn’t be keeping him out. But also, he looks like a wreck. Even from here Sam can see enough red blood staining Cas’ clothes that a human would be dead. It might not be all of his, though. 

But there _are_ wounds on his body— the stab wounds from earlier, and more. Fresh cuts, more injuries, all glowing with a light too bright to look at directly. 

“Oh, shit,” Bobby grumbles, joining Sam on the porch. 

Dean reaches Cas and holds out his hands like he’s not sure what to do. Usually Cas heals himself up— why hasn’t he healed himself? What’s wrong?

It gives him a headache after all the spells he did earlier, but Sam slips into his Sight. 

And he Sees Castiels’ true form is sprawled amongst the scrap cars, the weight of his collapse being what shattered all the glass. There are no more lances or harpoons in him, nothing for the angels to try and use to trap him, so he’s free. And Castiel— he’s not _tangible_ so this isn’t accurate, but he’s been hurt and wounded so badly it’s like he’s been skinned in some places. Grace seeps out of him in a steady flow. His entire being is less solid and more like it’s losing its integrity, like it’s melting.

In front of them, Sam watches Cas’ vessel step up to Dean and cup Dean’s face in his hands. 

“Oh no,” Sam realizes, and he leaps off of the porch to join Dean and Cas. 

“—death of an archangel causes significant damage. I can’t be sure what mine will do,” Cas says. 

“Don’t,” Dean begs, “what— what can we do—” 

Dean looks terrified as Sam skids to a stop beside them. 

“Cas you’re—” Sam starts. 

Cas nods, “Dying. My— I suffered too many injuries. My grace is… I am cut off from the host. I am unable to restore my integrity.” 

“If we get you to heaven— can you heal then?” Dean asks. 

Cas shakes his head, “The legions will tear me apart if I set foot in the kingdom. This is—” 

“Shut up!” Dean snaps, “this isn't it. Sam?” 

It’s a question, a plea, all in one. 

What does Sam know about angels, about whatever Cas is, that Cas or Dean don’t already know? What can he do? He looks around, and he can’t see Lucifer anywhere. Typical, right when Sam would have a question for him. 

Castiel’s radiant form shudders, like a death throw, and for an instant the connection to the vessel is cut and Cas’ human body crumples into Dean’s arms. Sam feels a wave of cold flow over him as a hundred of Castiel’s eyes burst into flame, making a dizzying array of flashes. 

Sam sees the flailing tendrils? Arms? The many different facets of Castiel reconnect to the vessel, and the body in Dean’s arms comes back to life with a start. 

“If you can’t— can we patch you up?” Sam guesses, “like— if we stitch up the physical wounds, does that help?” 

Normal wear and tear on the vessel doesn’t hurt angels, but angel blades _do_ because they’re a manifestation of grace, and connect to the angels true form through the vessel. So while Castiel’s wounds are to his grace, if they can stabilize the vessel, then maybe he can be saved? 

Dean grabs onto Sam’s theory with the tenacity of a pitbull, “Okay, okay, yeah. Cas we’re gonna sew you up, and you’re gonna feel like shit, but you’re gonna be okay.” 

“I don’t know if that will help,” Cas groans, “I should leave before—”

“We’ve gotta _try_!” Dean snaps, and then, “Sam help me lift him.” 

* * *

They get Cas onto Bobby’s couch. He’s bleeding everywhere, and shining hot grace-light, and Sam figures either they’ll find Bobby a new couch or maybe Cas can miracle away the stains and burns later. 

“Get the kit,” Dean orders to Sam, while directing Bobby to get some booze. Sam sprints up the stairs three at a time to find the medical kit Bobby keeps in the bathroom for shit like this. 

He makes a panicked call, out loud to the bathroom mirror. 

“Where _are_ you?” Sam demands. Lucifer tends to show up more often than not, and especially when Sam’s feeling stressed or worn down. This situation definitely qualifies. 

No sign of the manifestation of Sam’s subconscious, so Sam heads downstairs. 

Dean’s got Cas’ tie off, and is working on his shirt. 

“I told you I hate these fucking buttons,” he grumbles before he gives up and just _rips_ Cas’s shirt open. 

“Dean,” Cas croaks. 

“This isn’t gonna be pleasant,” Dean says, “do your best to stay awake.”

Dean’s always had the steadier hands for stitching up wounds, though Sam isn’t too bad at them either. But Dean’s taking charge, and Sam’s happy to follow his lead. They haven’t dealt with this much bloody cleanup in a while, and Sam isn’t sure if it’s gonna trigger an episode in him or something worse. 

* * *

Sam is exhausted by the time they’ve finished stitching and wrapping Cas’ wounds. Cas is still covered in blood, both his own and the blood of other angelic vessels he fought. 

Cas has passed out, and Dean has to shake him to wake him up. 

“Hey, hey,” Dean says gently. And just now Sam realizes that Dean is speaking to, has hands covered in the blood of, the guy that he’s, well, dating. Oh, oh shit. Sam should have offered to take over the stitching. It’s amazing how steady Dean’s hands were.

Maybe Sam’s been giving Dean too much credit. Maybe he and Cas aren’t as involved as Sam thinks they are. 

Cas mumbles a response and Dean smiles in relief. 

“I know you don’t feel good, but that’s because you got some human medicine. Once you’re back on your feet you can mojo all of this away,” Dean says, “but until then— what should we look out for? How do we know you’re stable or not?”

“If I burn up in a blast of radiant light,” Cas mutters, “then I am dead.” 

Dean scowls at him, and Cas seems to rethink his words, “thank you. It may… there is a small chance this could help.” 

* * *

From experience Sam knows how uncomfortable sleeping on this couch is. Cas is curled up, but that’s going to hurt his back, well, if his back can hurt. Considering the state he’s in right now? Any less ache they can afford him will probably be better. Sam suggests they move Cas upstairs to rest.

“Where? Your bed?” Dean scoffs. 

Sam was going to suggest Dean’s bed, because, well, _duh_. But the defensive tone makes him wait. Right. Bobby doesn’t know Dean and Cas are, well, whatever they are. And Dean is weird about his macho shit.

“This couch folds out,” Bobby says. And Sam _does_ remember that, because once upon a time he and Dean used to sleep on it. All Sam remembers is how hard the springs felt, and he and Dean gave themselves the giggles trying to sleep in strange poses to try and avoid the coils, until Dad yelled at them to stop goofing off and go to sleep.

They set up the pullout bed. With Cas settled— and Dean does him the honor of getting his shoes off before they tuck him in— the three of them relocate to the kitchen for a drink. 

The bottle still has smears of blood on it as Dean pours out shots for all of them. In ritual they all knock it back and Dean pours another round for sipping. 

“That sucked,” Dean admits. 

“So now we wait?” Bobby figures.

“I have no idea,” Sam shrugs, “I don’t think we’ve done angel surgery before.”

He doesn’t need to, but he glances between Bobby and Dean to confirm. Any angels they’ve dealt with have either healed themselves, or died. 

“Should I start moving my books out of the way?” Bobby wonders, “if Cas does go supernova, well, there’s a lot of good research around him.” 

Dean’s face immediately darkens, “Shut up! He’s gonna be fine!” 

Even Bobby looks surprised by the aggressive tone. 

“He’s gonna be okay, right?” Dean looks from Bobby to Sam, “right?”

Sam doesn’t know what to say, because the honest thing is ‘ _I don’t know_ ’ but Dean needs to hear something else, “Cas is tough. He bounces back.” 

“I ain’t ever seen him this bad,” Bobby says. 

“We need to be ready, in case it gets worse,” Dean says, “we need backup plans.” 

“You heard Cas: he can’t heal because he’s locked out of heaven,” Bobby reminds him, “and that’s the only source of grace I know of, unless you’ve heard of anything else.” 

“Well then maybe we need to find a backdoor in!” Dean snaps. 

“Dean, I’m on your side,” Bobby soothes. 

Dean clenches his jaw so tight it makes Sam’s teeth ache, before he breathes out heavily, forcing himself to calm down, “We can’t lose him. Cas is… he’s family, okay?” 

“Of course,” Bobby says. Sam wishes he could say something, to help Bobby understand why Dean’s freaking out. But even Sam doesn’t know where the line is for Dean— Dean would be just as crazy if it was Sam who was all beat to shit, or Bobby himself. Is this because Cas is Dean’s friend, or something more?

* * *

The afternoon passes with their faces in books. They try to relocate all research to the kitchen, to give Cas some space to rest, and check in on him periodically. Dean checks up on his stitches, makes sure Cas isn’t actually bleeding out, and wipes some of the extra blood off of him before it gets too dry. From experience, Sam knows how itchy and uncomfortable it is. 

The worst part is that most of what they know about angels has come from firsthand experience, considering the hunting world, even the supernatural world, didn’t believe angels existed until a few years ago. Sam can remember the panic in all corners of the world after Dean was resurrected and everyone knew there was _something_ out there that was completely unknown and terrifying. 

And said creature is stitched up and trying not to die in the living room. 

Sam gets up to stretch his legs and heads in to check on Cas. He hasn’t moved much since they got him set up on the squeaky spring-bed. He woke for a little bit while Dean was checking on him, but that’s it. They’re not sure if they should be getting him to drink water, or leave him be, or keep him awake. 

The human vessel looks pretty rough, that’s a given. If Cas wasn’t an angel, they would have had to take him to the hospital. Bobby’s wondered if they _should_ do that, but, if angels are after Cas then that might be too dangerous to let him leave the safety of the wards they have set up. 

Sam knows the vessel is just a front for Cas’ true self, and it’s his real form that’s badly hurt. He breathes out slowly to center himself, finds his inner zen like Cas taught him, and closes his eyes to See. 

Sam has gotten used to Seeing Cas’ form, hovering near or above his vessel. The way he puppets the vessel sometimes reminds Sam of kids playing with dolls, which also adds some nuance as to why Cas is so awkward about expressions and moving like a normal human. Too many moving parts to pay attention to when he doesn’t care about passing unless something specific has his attention. 

Normally his form is massive, filling the space the way a light fills a dark room. It’s constantly changing shape, more like a liquid than a solid form. Sometimes it reminds Sam of a lava lamp, with a new head or limb or wing or _something_ bubbling up and then being reabsorbed. He always has multiple wing-ish shapes, which are distinct from the rest of him because they’re covered in hundreds of eyes. Cas’ form is hard to look at, like staring into the sun, and Sam isn’t interested in going blind so he usually looks at him in peripherals. 

Now he Sees Cas’ form sprawled on the bed alongside his vessel, like he’s exhausted and resting as well. He’s mostly glowing light, with a few bubbles of activity, but overall he’s… small. And not passively active like his form normally is. Some of his limbs hang off the bed, out onto the floor, and Sam doesn’t know if they’ve walked over Cas or if he can even feel that. Cas’ wings are a wreck, several of the eyes are closed or burning or, rather than glowing they’re _absorbing_ light and Sam has no way to describe what that looks like other than ‘black’. They’re in shapes and angles they weren’t before, and Sam thinks back to Seeing Cas fighting the other angel and snapping its wing. Are Cas’ wings broken? Do they need to be set? _Can_ they be set? Is this part of him breaking out of his restraints, and this is what he _should_ look like? 

He’s covered in stab wounds and cuts, many of which are still bleeding grace like they were before. Sam can See the wounds right now, understand that they’re there, and he has no way to describe what they look like or even how to go about closing them. They don’t even correlate to the injuries on the vessel. They’re melodies that have been broken, tones and notes in all the wrong places, in a song that Sam doesn’t know and can’t actually hear. How is he supposed to do anything?

All in all, Cas looks like he got fucked up. He doesn’t look good, and Sam doesn’t know enough to know if he looks like he’s getting better or if he’s getting worse. 

Sam taps into the old magic he’s absorbing for the trials. Earthy clay tones settle in the back of his mouth as the runes light up on his forearms. A chill, almost arousing in nature, hums in his bones. This old magic should be able to do something. 

He gets no reaction from Castiel nor from the magic itself. It’s hungry, but it pays Cas no heed. Sam lets it rest before his bones start to ache. Still no sign of Lucifer. 

Sam drops his Sight and heads back into the kitchen. 

“How’s he looking?” Dean asks. 

“He doesn’t look great, but he's not dead yet. I took a good look but, I don’t know, it’s weird,” Sam says. 

“Weird? What’s weird?” Dean presses. 

“He’s normally a lot bigger,” Sam tries to explain, “like, he’s taking up the bed but not the room. I can’t tell if stitching him up helped, but his wings are fucked and he’s still bleeding grace in a lot of—” 

And Sam pauses because Bobby is staring at him. 

“You can _see_ Cas?” Bobby asks. 

Oh. Woops.

“Yeah,” Sam says slowly, and he does _not_ look at Bobby because while they told Bobby that Sam’s visions were returning, and Cas was training him, they haven’t spoken about it since Sam moved the bowl of chips in front of him, “yeah I can see, like, the real him.”

“And you still have eyes?” Bobby demands. Fair point. They were all there to smell Pamela’s burning skin back before they met Cas. 

“Cas thinks because I’m, well, an archangel’s vessel means I can handle more grace than the average human,” Sam says, “and I’m not like, actually looking at him. It’s like, uh, wearing sunglasses. Filtered. There’s layers, and he’s like… not visual. It’s more… sound.” 

Both Dean and Bobby are looking at him like Sam’s talking another language. Dean often complains that he has no idea what Sam’s talking about when Sam starts talking about magic or Seeing. 

“Well if you can see it, then, can you do anything?” Dean asks. 

The last time Sam fucked around with Cas’ grace his heart stopped and he went blind for a few days. And that was just _touching_ a small melody of Cas’s grace, not the whole source itself. 

“I don’t,” Sam hesitates, shakes his head, “I don’t think I’m anywhere strong enough to do that.” 

Bobby’s still looking at him, surprised, and Sam doesn’t like the attention. The less people talk about his powers the better. 

“What if we found a— a different psychic? A stronger one?” Dean wonders, “could they—” 

“Angel shit is _weird_ ,” Sam warns him, “if we found someone I don’t know if they would have any idea of what to do. Plus, we looked everywhere for proper psychics to train me, and didn’t find anyone.”

Dean slumps back in his chair. Sam feels guilty. Should he try? He doesn’t even know what to do. He’d probably make things worse if he went poking around Cas’ grace. 

“I’ll, um, I can try meditating. See if I get a vision on anything,” Sam offers. He and Cas have no idea how Sam’s visions function, as they’re related to seeing things before they happen, like a prophet, but they don’t come from a divine source. His visions have been his own to train on, and Sam has never been able to call up a vision when he needs it, let alone direct what he wants to see. 

“Any bit helps,” Dean says. Sam keeps his head down and does not look at Bobby at all. Dad already thought Sam’s powers made him an abomination. He desperately doesn’t want to hear that from Bobby too. 

“What have you guys got?” Sam wonders. Knowing their line of thinking might help direct his visions. 

“We’re trying to figure out a potential substitute for grace, and we’ve got shit all,” Dean sighs. 

“Would holy oil work?” Bobby tries, “or… we get him to holy ground? Might not be the _same_ , but could it do in a pinch?” 

About as much as Sam thought they’d have, though he’d been hoping for more. They have no idea how to help Cas because there is _nothing_ in the universe like angelic grace. 

Dean slams his book down on the table with a frustrated curse. 

"Maybe you could think about getting into politics," Bobby offers.

Dean glares at him, clearly in no place for joking around. He's in a mood and it's only getting worse the longer they go without finding an answer. 

"Crowley's been gunning to get your help with his whole Abaddon situation," Bobby reminds them, "he calls me every other day to find out what he can offer you to take care of her."

Sam shakes his head, "We're trying to close the gates to hell. We're avoiding Crowley for a reason."

For emphasis Sam lets the runes on his arms light up. Sam's pretty sure Bobby's blind to magic like Dean is, but even Dean can see Sam's skin glow so Bobby should be able to see it too. 

"If Crowley knows what we're doing he'll do everything he can to stop us," Sam says. 

Dean's chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"It's not a bad idea," Dean muses, "but we'd need something on Crowley. He and Cas have too much bad blood to let Crowley get this kind of leverage on Cas."

"Deal with leverage after Cas is back on his feet," Bobby says, "Crowley's a slippery bastard, but he might be able to help."

"Last resort," Dean agrees, and he sounds like he's seriously thinking about it. 

"Working with Crowley jeopardizes everything I've done for the trials," Sam reminds Dean, "and after I busted Bela out of hell, I'm sure Crowley is close to figuring out what we're doing. We can't be reckless—"

"Reckless?" Dean shouts, and he's on his feet like he's ready to start swinging, "you think it's reckless to save Cas? We're the reason he's dying—"

"I know," Sam cuts him off, "we're gonna save him. We'll figure it out. I'm just saying we have to think about the big picture."

Dean looks at Sam like he's never seen him before. He grabs the book he's been reading off the table.

"Fuck your big picture," Dean snaps, and then storms out towards the living room. 

Sam lets his shoulders drop and looks to Bobby. He releases the old magic, lets it go quiet again. The glow fades from his arms.

"I didn't mean it like that," Sam sighs.

"I know," Bobby says, "and I think you're right."

Sam drops into the chair Dean left open and scrubs a hand down his face. 

"Thanks, but Dean's not in the space to hear it, with Cas like this. I should have known."

"He always gets angry when you or Cas get yourselves into shit. This is… definitely one of the bad ones."

Sam agrees with a nod. Bobby doesn't know that Dean and Cas are together, doesn't know that Dean's freaking out because he cares about Cas more than a friend. And Sam wishes he could say something, so Bobby could understand. 

There’s a prolonged silence. Sam feels like Bobby is waiting for him to talk, and Sam has nothing he can say.

"I'm gonna try and lay down," Sam says instead, "I usually get visions when I'm sleeping." 

"I hope you have better luck than we do," Bobby admits. 

"Me too," Sam agrees, and takes his leave. 

As he heads up the stairs to his room, he can peek into the living room. Dean is perched on the edge of the foldout, handing Cas the glass of water they put out for him. 

On a whim Sam slips on his Sight again. 

He looks around for Lucifer, for any sign of his hallucination. No disturbance in the flow of energy around him. No one to ask for help. 

He does spy Castiel's broken, seeping grace pull itself together enough to crawl to Dean. Even though Dean can't see or comprehend his true form, Cas lays a head in Dean's lap like it might give him some small comfort to be close to him before he dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you have questions: why can't Cas heal? He healed Sam before! Here's the logic that was loosely explained in the fic:
> 
> Angels are like batteries that charge up in heaven, and then when they leave, they are mostly self-sustaining. Similar to a human who gets a little cut or scrape, they can heal themselves no hassle and "recover" that energy with no threat to their state of being. This is why angels can exist outside of heaven for so long with no issues, but also require a connection to heaven to perform Bigger Miracles (like time travel, or annihilations) What Cas experienced was beyond his self-sustaining capabilities, and so a normal angel would return to heaven and absorb all the energy there, recharge the batteries, and be fine. Because Cas can't go to heaven, he doesn't have any options of anything he can "plug into" to recharge. 
> 
> I hope that helps clarify everything! I tried to explain it as good as I could in the fic, but I also didn't want to hit you with Bobby, Dean and Sam infodumping on y'all too much.
> 
> Secondly: 
> 
> There's 2 scenarios regarding Sam's 'oh??' re: Benny: 1) Benny simply IS that hot. You see that cajun vampire? He's made of boyfriend material. or 2) Sam and Dean have the same taste in men (but they don't know that. yet). 
> 
> The truth is a blend or whichever one is funniest.
> 
> One more chapter until the end! I'll see y'all next week <33


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HERE! THE END!!
> 
> We have a good news/bad news situation ahead. Let me start with the bad:
> 
> The Bad: Dean's pov (the next part of the story) was meant to be finished in time to start posting right away after Sam's story finished. Turns out Beano had a LOT to say. I've only gotten to chapter 7 of Sam's story (in matching events) and I'm swamped with my last semester until the end of april, so I don't have the time to commit to getting the fic out asap. 
> 
> So what does that mean for us? It means we're going to have a little break! I'll still be working on Dean's story, but it's likely that it won't be anywhere near ready to publish for at least a month, if not a bit longer. I do know where the story ends, have written the ending, and so all that's left is connecting those points and then editing. (Also, for reference, as of right now it's over 90k. Ffs, Dean). 
> 
> "But Dem! Since you have _almost 100k written_ (WHAT THE HELL???) couldn't you just start posting a chapter or two now as you go?" 
> 
> I could! Except for the fact that I'm writing these fics in a completely new way that requires an INSANE amount of editing and moving things around on the back end in order to make things flow. I actually added well over 10k words to Sam's Story through this method, after the story had finished. So, unfortunately, there is zero part of Dean's story that can be posted yet!
> 
> So what's the good news? 
> 
> The good news is that Dean's story WILL be finished, and is absolutely over the halfway hurdle, so we'll get it soon (fingers crossed). In the meantime you can check in with me on tunglr (my name's the same) where I'll post updates and short bits from the story on wip wednesdays or when i write something i like! (find: 'the love it takes series' or 'to become a man fic' as the tags I'll use)
> 
> The other good news? THIS IS IT!! THE FINAL CHAPTER!! In planning out this story, this chapter is basically the ENTIRE reason/the scene I wrote this fic for. We get to where Sam's been growing towards, and it's time for our lawboy to blossom!! It also features one of the best scenes I've ever written, imo! And sets the events for the rest of this verse. 
> 
> THE OTHER GOOD NEWS is that once Dean's story is over, the "ground rules" of this verse will be set and I can start branching out and including more characters and scenarios. I have a lot of ideas on how to integrate post-s8 plots and characters, and even how Sam and Dean's relationships with/to people will be altered. So we'll probably see lots of short pieces to round out this verse that I'll be able to work on and have some fun with as I round up Dean's pov. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who has followed this story and taken the time to leave such thoughtful responses! I love reading your thoughts and hearing your reflections on the chapters, and how much fun you're having! It's been an honor to share this story with you, and I hope this last chapter delights you like it does me!

* * *

Sam doesn’t expect to actually sleep. He’s too tense, too nervous for that kind of outcome. Sleep is a difficult concept for him at the best of times anyways. 

He lays in his familiar bed, the bed that’s been his since Bobby’s place started becoming like a home, and lays his arms flat at his sides, palms up. Sam keeps his Sight active, even as he closes his eyes. The world goes out of focus and comes to him in startling clarity at the same time. 

He’s never called out to Lucifer before. In fact, Sam has worked very hard to make it a habit to ignore him, even as Lucifer delights in every instance that Sam acknowledges him. Even as Lucifer has become his constant companion in research, in studies and magic. Lucifer was the one who guided his hand to try and change Amy to save her. Sam’s memories get a little hazy, blurred with all of the heavy spells he was using, but he thinks Lucifer is a big part of why he survived. 

“Where are you?” Sam asks out loud, “Cas is really bad off, and I need to know more about angel grace. How do we fix it? How do we save him?” 

Sam thinks of Dean’s steady hands covered in blood, of Dean quiet at Cas’ side. He thinks about them dancing in the kitchen. Sam can barely remember the year with the leviathans, but between the gaps and dark spots in his memory, he thinks he remembers Dean’s pain because Cas was gone. He remembers that Dean stayed in purgatory longer than he needed, to find Cas and bring him home. 

“I have to help him,” Sam whispers, “please. I can’t let Dean go through that again.”

It tastes like ashes in his mouth when Sam says, “I need your help.” 

There’s no response. No scales on his skin, no fingers in his hair. No disembodied voice, no delighted smile. It’s only Sam in the room. 

But it’s always been _only_ Sam. 

Sam isn’t an idiot. He knows that the Lucifer he sees isn’t the _real_ Lucifer. He knows that it’s a hallucination—his hallucination, born from his own pain and trauma. Sam’s rationalized them as being separate people, that he has two whole identities and he’s pushed everything unwanted into Lucifer, and claimed himself as The Sam That Is. But that is a lie. It’s what he needed, to remember who he was, to rebuild himself after his breaking. There has never been two of him. 

_“The magic was in you all along, dumbo,”_ Ruby laughs in his memories. Sam almost laughs with her. 

He sits up in his bed, eyes still shut tight, his other senses heightened. 

“I know the answer,” Sam reminds himself, “I just have to remember it.”

His heart flutters in his chest. He’s… afraid. To remember. To reclaim these memories. Because Sam is still settling the memories he did keep for himself. Those are the ones that give him nightmares bad enough to make him shake the furniture with his thoughts, that make him wake up crying or leave him unable to sleep at all. The ones he distanced himself from, that he keeps in Lucifer, those are the ones that he has yet to have nightmares of. Those are the memories he still can’t remember. 

Sam absently rubs at his chest, over his battered heart. 

“It’s okay,” he says softly, and he thinks again of Dean’s steady hands grounding him after a nightmare, of Cas doing crosswords with him before dawn, of Bobby keeping peanut butter stocked for him, “we’re loved. We’ll be okay again.” 

Sam takes a deep breath, and dives into his fears. 

* * *

He goes to Hell. 

Hell was originally meant to cage an angel. It has since been filled with human souls, become a destination for them, but it was divinely made. Grace, the divine, sing like a chorus. The heavenly choir is an accurate description: a battlefield of angels is harmonious and glorious, righteous and beautiful. 

Hell is the opposite of that. 

The song of hell is loud, and unyielding. It is despairing and isolating. Like gongs rung at every level, the echoes grow louder and louder, building in intensity. If grace is a crescendo, a climax of power, then hell is the opposite: a deficit, a trough, a wasting and waning of everything that hears it. 

The cage is in the heart of hell, where the bells toll the loudest. 

Lucifer was an angel, is still an angel, after all this time. But his grace song is horribly disfigured and mangled. With every note or tone he sings, it’s warped, twisted, muted. He is inverted, he is denied and his own form is turned against itself. His family cannot hear him because he can no longer sing in ways they can hear, or understand. 

He is the loneliest creature in the world.

Sam would feel pity, if he wasn’t feeling pain. 

Hell isn’t cold, it’s an absence of heat. Of mercy, or joy. Blood still steams when exposed.

Sam’s heart beats in a pattern to match the gongs, spreads the discord through his own body, soul and mind so that he’s tearing himself apart even as Lucifer does the same. 

Centuries he spent, locked in this cage with an archangel. Lucifer’s grace is as familiar as his own pulse. 

“There’s really nothing like you,” Sam observes, and from where he’s found himself, in this onslaught of memory, he reaches beyond the emotions to touch the memory of grace, “there is no substitute for grace. Only grace can heal grace.” 

“Lying,” Lucifer scolds.

Sam whirls around to find Lucifer standing adjacent to the memory. He’s within the cage, but he’s not pained by it. He’s wearing Sam’s own face this time, close enough to how Sam is these days that this version of him could be from anywhere in the last recent years. His skin glows from within, like the many times Lucifer stole Sam’s body from him, just to try and feel the warmth of it, to see if it could feel like a respite, like a home. 

“What do you mean? Is there a substitute?” Sam asks, and he steps out of the tableau he was reconstructing, joins Lucifer on the edges of it. He hears himself crying, can hear Lucifer talking over him—this isn’t one instance of pain; this is the amalgamation of his lifetimes of horror. 

“We healed so much in the cage,” Lucifer reminds him, “you know this.”

“How?” Sam almost laughs, “you never got hurt.” 

His memories are twisted and blended together, but that is a truth Sam knows. Sam’s resistance meant nothing because Lucifer always overpowered him. Lucifer always won—except for the one time it counted. 

Lucifer twists his borrowed face into a snarl, the gongs ring loud and both of them stumble even at the memory of the sound. 

“Lies! We always hurt! He won’t look at us Sam! No matter how long we cry, no matter how much we bleed, he won’t see us! He hates us! He hates us so much that not even our pain could move him! Not our joy, not our love, not our blood!”

Sam’s bombarded with the memories of Michael, dutiful, loyal Michael, keeping Adam isolated and protected from them, with his back turned to Sam and Lucifer. And it didn’t matter how much Lucifer tortured Sam, no matter how loud or desperately Sam begged for help, Michael would not budge. For all that Michael was concerned, Sam and Lucifer didn’t exist, or maybe they deserved their pain, because God said it was so. 

The world of the memories expands, to see Michael in the corner of the cage. He’s remembered in perfect clarity, because he did not move once in centuries. 

Sam’s driven to tears, feels rage and hate well up in his throat at the sight of Michael. How could he do that? To his own brother? To see the cruelty of their fathers design, and to _still_ be loyal? Where is his compassion? Where is his mercy?

There was so much pain in the cage. Lucifer was trapped in there, alone, for eternity. His family abandoned him; his father turned away from his cries. Because someone needed to be in the cage, someone needed to be the scapegoat, to take the fall for all of the absent fathers’ failings, and they decided that was Lucifer. That it would be Sam.

Sam can remember now. Lucifer was always in pain. To the point that he became his pain, that he didn’t know himself without it. How that pain twisted into rage because it was unfair for a family who could see all of the flaws, still be loyal to the father who no longer cared for them. That they would continue to leave Lucifer alone, to leave him locked away, because it was easier. Their comfort was worth his loneliness.

The song of hell rings on. Sam’s memories distort beyond what he can passively understand, as his soul is mangled by both intent and by association. 

“How did we heal the pain?” Lucifer asks, and he’s crying openly. Sam thinks he’s mirroring him.

Sam thinks back, through all of the pain and the rage and isolation he felt, trapped in that cage with Lucifer. He remembers talking to him, when Lucifer had finally grown weary of hurting Sam, when he knew that Sam felt the same pain he did. Even when Lucifer wasn’t hurting him, there was still pain. There was the absence of love. Their matching disappointment in a world that could have, should have, been better; in fathers that could have, should have, cared more. Lucifer’s need to make everyone feel his pain, so then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be alone anymore. Maybe if everyone felt his pain, they could understand him again. Maybe he could go home. His family would look at him and know him. 

Sam thinks of those nature documentaries he and Dean watched as kids. There was a whale who sang in pitches the other whales couldn’t hear, so no one would talk to him. The loneliest creature in the world. That’s Lucifer. That’s Sam. Unseen, unknown, and unloveable.

But not unloved. Not Sam.

And that is the only point that Sam and Lucifer differ. Michael won’t look at them, won’t comfort or protect them because his loyalty outweighs his love.

But Sam has Dean. And Dean’s love is stronger than anything in the universe. Dean loves Sam more than loyalty, and he would never, has never, let Sam go without love.

“What did we use?” Lucifer asks again, “what did we use to heal the pain?”

Lucifer doesn’t know life without pain anymore: can’t give a touch without wounding, can’t cradle without cracking, can’t pull without tearing. He saw the traces of gold, of Dean’s love, in Sam’s soul and wanted it for himself. He wanted the shadow, the impression, the imitation of Dean’s love that Sam could offer in limited regards.

Human souls are a unique kind of magic, completely separate from grace songs, demonic living networks and psychic spell threads. Different from the taste of ancient divine that Sam knows now. They’re malleable, like water slipping between fingers. Such potent energy, indestructible but able to change. Divert the path of the stream, taunt and coax it into light or dark and any shades in between. 

Lucifer twisted and cut and stretched Sam’s soul into something he could try and fit into. Bent it so far out of shape that there was no way Sam could be human again. He melted and sliced it, reformed it into new shapes, took the threads and made a sad, pathetic song from it. He mixed Sam’s soul into his grace, sewed them so tightly that they could no longer tell the difference between the two of them.

Maybe not even Castiel could tell the difference, in his attempt to rescue Sam. Maybe not even Death could tell the difference, when he returned Sam’s soul to him. 

Sam looks at Lucifer, wearing his face. Wearing _his_ _face_. Blood wells up in his throat. Blood in the water. Grace that bites, a soul that soothes. Dangerous, deep magic. 

* * *

_Sam dreams of drowning. He’s swallowing in light and dark and the world_ trembles _at his touch. He’s reaching for something that bites. It fights to maintain itself. He’s reaching for something that soothes. Love protects him. There’s blood in the water._

* * *

“I don’t like this,” Sam admits. 

“We have the answers we need,” Lucifer reminds him, and he pauses a moment before he shouts in Dean’s voice, 

“Sam?” 

* * *

Sam comes awake with a gasp. Dean’s leaning over him, shaking him violently. Sam’s mind rings with the sounds of hell, with the overwhelming knowledge in his mind, and he shoves Dean away to scramble for the bathroom. Sam opens his eyes only after he’s moving, his Sight scattered and panicked, and his limbs don’t feel like his own. He doesn’t have time to lift the lid on the toilet and collapses over the edge of the tub to throw up in there instead. 

Dean is right on his heels, hand between Sam’s shoulder blades. 

“Hey, hey, Sammy—Sammy?” he’s talking too fast and Sam’s ears are still ringing. 

Sam spits one last time, presses his head to the cold porcelain of the tub while he breathes deeply. Dean perches over him, unsure in which direction to spring. 

When his heart no longer beats to the song of hell, he lifts his head. 

“What’s up?”

For a moment Dean looks like he’s gonna smack him, but he claps a heavy hand onto Sam’s shoulder and says, “You, dumbass. You were having a nightmare—” 

“A vision,” Sam clarifies, and it’s taking a second for everything spinning around his mind to settle. 

“Well excuse me, you don’t normally start screaming bloody freaking murder during a vision,” Dean snaps, “I thought you were cracking again.” 

“We know what to do,” Lucifer says behind Dean, leaning on the doorframe to the bathroom. 

Sam nods, and wipes his face, “You know how bad Cas is,” he says to Lucifer, “can we fix him?”

Dean looks over his shoulder to see who Sam’s talking to. He sees no one. 

“It will be difficult,” Lucifer says, an echo of the conversation before trying to change Amy, “it will be hard. It could kill us. But if you trust us, then we can try.”

Sam sucks in a breath, “I can do it,” and it takes Dean a second to realize he’s being addressed, “I know how to save Cas.” 

* * *

They’re called downstairs by Bobby. Cas is crashing. The vessel is motionless on the bed, but the light seeping out between Dean’s stitching is growing in intensity. Dean races down the stairs ahead of Sam, Sam clings to the railing to do a controlled fall to the bottom as his knees are feeling weak. Lucifer hovers at his side. 

“Cas, hey!” Dean shouts, and he’s white with fear. He’s been running between Sam and Cas all day, trying to put out fires he has no capacity to even understand. 

At the sound of Dean’s voice, Cas pushes more of himself into the vessel, because the body comes alive again and thrashes in painful spasms. Dean crowds in, almost shoving Bobby out of the way, to try and help. 

“Hold on,” Dean begs, “just a little longer. Sam—Sam says he has an idea. We’re gonna save you. Just hold on a little longer. Right, Sam?” 

“Sam?” Bobby asks, turning to face Sam. 

Castiel has opened his vessels eyes to look at Dean, but he drags his gaze away to look at Sam. His eyes are almost white with grace shining through. 

“There’s a—I can do a skin graft. A transplant. Or like it,” Sam says, “and it can hold you together until your grace recovers.” 

“Graft from what?” Bobby asks. 

Sam swallows, glances to Lucifer, and says, “From a soul. A human soul.” 

Cas almost lurches off the bed. Dean gets knocked back from how quickly he sits up. One of Cas’ many heads, one of the ones with teeth screams in rage and the windows in the living room explode outwards. Dean and Bobby cover their ears at the high-pitched noise. 

“No!” Cas shouts through his vessel, amplified with the roar of his true self, “I will not become a parasite again!” 

“There is nothing else,” Lucifer confirms to Sam, “it’s this or death.” 

“I won’t force him to do something he doesn’t want,” Sam quickly tells Lucifer, “he has to be willing.” 

“Corruption,” Lucifer grins, like Sam was making a joke. 

Bobby looks concerned that Sam’s talking to air, but Dean has grabbed Cas’ face in his hands, “Listen to me: you are dying and I can’t lose you. I promise you I won’t let you go darkside.” 

“Dean,” Cas pleads, and he sounds so broken—one head still rages, and another now sobs and Sam feels his stomach lurch at the fear and sorrow in it. Even Bobby glances around, like maybe he can feel it but doesn’t understand the source of the emotion. 

“Tell him to trust Dean,” Lucifer says to Sam, “if you want to make him do it.” 

“This has never been done,” Castiel insists, “it’s impossible.”

“Lies,” Lucifer scoffs, talking to Sam, “we’ve done it.”

“Please, Cas,” Dean insists, and his voice cracks, “don’t leave me.” 

“You can trust Dean,” Sam says, and Cas looks to Sam again. Sam told Cas his secret: Dean knows where the line is, Dean will hold the line for them. If they trust in Dean, then Sam and Cas can trust they’re doing the right thing. 

Cas’ many heads silence themselves. 

“Okay,” Cas sighs, and one last look to Dean, “I’ll follow you.” 

He’s too weak to maintain the connection to his vessel, and the body goes limp in Dean’s arms. 

* * *

Sam gets them set up in the panic room. It’s a secure place for the work he has to do, and the size of it will restrain Castiel’s form to something small enough for Sam to work on. Dean carries Cas downstairs, unaware of Castiel’s true form, small and slumped on the chest of his vessel, of how he clings to Dean like he fears never touching him again. Sam directs Bobby in all of the spell components he needs. He mindlessly dictates whatever Lucifer tells him they need, and doesn’t stop to give Bobby or Dean the chance to be concerned with Sam’s one-sided conversations. 

“Where the hell did you learn this?” Bobby asks. 

Sam cracks a smile at the phrasing, “Take a guess. We had a lot of time to practice.”

Cas is only getting worse, so they don’t have much time to waste. 

“Is this where I care bear it again?” Dean asks. He thinks he’s useless to Sam and Cas when it comes to magic, when really Dean is the most important part. He’s their anchor. He’s the one that keeps them pointed in the right direction. He’s the love they return to, and guard jealously, because Dean’s the only one who won’t turn them away. 

“No, you’re part of this,” Sam says, and he can feel Lucifer’s pride at this, because they’ve set it up now that Dean will throw himself into this willingly, “I… I need it to be your soul.” 

“Me?” Dean almost laughs, and looks down at Castiel’s unconscious vessel on the cot, “dude, I am not angel quality—” 

“But you’re an archangel’s vessel,” Sam reminds him, “our souls can contain a lot more grace than normal people—”

“Normal people would be better than the shit I’ve got,” Dean warns, “I’d probably poison Cas with—” 

“Why haven’t we told him his soul is so splendid?” Lucifer asks. 

“Be quiet,” Sam tells him. 

Dean thinks that’s directed at him. Sam doesn’t correct him.

“I’d use mine, but I won’t be able to maintain the spell if I do,” and Sam pauses, lets the discomfort of his memories pass, “it’s going to hurt, Dean. I have to cut your soul up. It’s going to hurt enough that I can’t do it to myself and stay conscious to make it work.” 

Dean swallows audibly, “Oh.”

“Are we sure this is the only way?” Bobby asks. 

“He’s right,” Dean agrees and looks worriedly at Sam, “the times you fucked around with magic like this has almost killed you. Are you sure you can do this?”

“Yes,” Sam says, “I’ve had— I’ve had a recurring vision for a while now. And now I know it’s about this. I’m the only chance Cas has.”

“That may be true, but if it’s gonna kill you it ain’t worth it,” Bobby argues. 

“It’s worth trying!” Dean snarls, and for a split second looks like he’s ready to fight Bobby. 

“You don’t have to chew me out, I’m picking up that Cas is more important than you want me to know,” Bobby snaps. Dean looks away. His hands are shaking. 

“It’s not—I can’t lose him,” Dean confesses, “not again.” 

“I’m going to do my best,” Sam promises, “I think I can stabilize him. It’ll give us more time to come up with a real solution.” 

But Dean has been rattled so much that all of his secrets are pouring out, “No, you don’t understand Sam, I _can’t_ lose him. I—fuck, I—” 

Sam’s heart stops in his chest. Wait. No way. Across the room Bobby’s eyes have gone wide under the brim of his hat.

Dean looks past Sam, at Castiel’s lifeless vessel, “I love him. Like, fuck, I think he’s the love of my life. I can’t—I can’t lose him—” 

Sam’s not entirely sure what he says in response. It’s some sort of hiss, that he wanted to be sympathetic, combined with several different curses that all come out at the same time, resulting in a noise that’s nonsensical and pure emotion. 

Dean is… Dean’s in _love_ with Cas? 

Lucifer doesn’t think that Dean is lying.

“Dean you picked a hell of a time to drop this,” Bobby says, and it’s not angry, it sounds like Bobby’s winded. He’s reeling from this as much as Sam is. 

“Dean,” Sam finally says. 

Dean’s eyes are bright with tears, and he’s closed his hands into shaky fists to try and stop his fingers from twitching. He lifts his chin to look at Sam.

“Okay,” Sam realizes. This isn’t a ‘do his best’ scenario. There is no room for error. Sam _has_ to save Cas. 

Sam catches Dean’s gaze to promise him, “I’m gonna save him, Dean. I’m going to do whatever it takes. But we have to act now.” 

Dean nods, clenching his jaw so tight that his teeth must be aching.

“One—one condition,” Dean says, like a man forced to choose between two impossible things, “you can’t kill yourself to save him. Promise me that, Sam.” 

“I don't like this,” Bobby admits, “this feels like we’re in over our heads. Maybe we hand Cas over to heaven, and we plan to bust him out.” 

“It’s not an option!” Dean snaps, and he looks down at Cas, “I promised I wouldn’t let them get their hands on him—” 

He’s cut off as the candle flames in the room flicker. Cas’ wounds light up brighter. 

“We don’t have time,” Sam agrees, and turns to Lucifer, “what do I need to do?”

“Like we did with Amy,” Lucifer instructs, “physical touch will be best to keep us rooted.” 

Sam instructs Dean to lay down on the other cot that they’ve pulled up beside Cas. 

“Send Bobby out,” Lucifer says. 

“Bobby you should go,” Sam says, “this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

“I’m not leaving you boys,” Bobby argues.

“And we might have company,” Lucifer warns. 

Sam pauses at that, “Who?” 

“Angels and demons. Anyone nearby,” Lucifer shrugs, “this kind of magic… people will take notice.” 

“Beef up the wards,” Sam tells Bobby, “we might get people sniffing around once I start working.” 

“How long will this take?” Dean asks. He’s stripped off his layers down to his t-shirt to roll up the sleeve, exposing the handprint shaped burn scar there. He must think Sam needs to touch it for this to work. 

“As long as it takes,” Lucifer says. 

“I don’t know,” Sam says.

Bobby mutters a few choice curses, and steps back. 

“This is beyond me,” he admits, “I’ll board the windows upstairs. You boys—don’t—we’re having a drink, when this is over and, Dean: you and Cas are gonna walk me ‘n Sam through all of this, okay?”

“Yes sir,” Sam and Dean say immediately. It’s a hunter’s farewell. Agree to a future, against all odds.

Sam takes a position standing between Dean and Cas. Dean looks up at him, looking small and human to Sam for the first time in a long time. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dean checks, “you’re—you’re really chatty with yourself. Or, uh, it’s—it’s him, the devil, right? That’s who you see?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, going for casual, and hopes it’s convincing. He tries to joke, “I needed the extra hands.” 

Dean nods, and clearly is realizing that he’s putting his life and Castiel’s life in the hands of someone who’s very, very broken. 

“Dean,” Sam says softly, and sets his hand on Dean’s shoulder, just above the burn, “this is… it’s going to be like hell.”

Dean’s mouth twists into a grin, to joke, so Sam says again, “It’s going to be like _being_ in hell. I have to strip your soul back to get to the core.” 

Dean pales further. He steels himself with three quick breaths, and nods once, “Okay. Okay. Do it.” And he puts his belt between his teeth to have something to bite down on. Sam feels oddly grateful that Dean is taking him seriously. 

Sam squeezes Dean’s shoulder in comfort, “Hey, Cas has been training me for months now. He just—he didn’t know it was going to be to save him. I’ve got this, Dean. It’s going to be okay.” 

“Don’t lie,” Lucifer warns Sam.

“I’m not,” Sam informs him. 

Sam activates the old magic in his bones. He breathes through the earthy, weighted sensation that surges through him. The old magic is hungry. It wants to act. It was the only reason Sam survived diving deep before. He hopes it will save him again. 

Lucifer steps up to face Sam. He takes Sam’s face between his hands. 

“If we want to succeed it has to be together.” 

It’s going to take them deeper than they’ve ever been before. And if it doesn’t work there will be no Castiel to save them, no Dean to call them back. 

What is there to come back to, if their family is gone? 

Sam has been very careful about never saying yes to his hallucination. Even if it’s a manifestation of himself, he’s too afraid to be wrong. His and Lucifer’s selves became so entwined in the cage. How could anyone tell them apart?

_“It’s my life now,” Sam whispers to himself._

He recalls the steps of Lucifer threading them together. He remembers being ripped apart, and Lucifer making them go through it again and again until the becoming and undoing was a state of equilibrium. 

_“And what are we going to do with it?”_

Lucifer rests his forehead against Sam’s. They breathe together.

“Say yes, Sam, and let me—"

The temperature plummets.

Sam gasps as the air grows heavy with magic so old it _predates_ the ancient magic from the trials. All of the candles are extinguished at once, and only the white light of Castiel’s grace illuminates the space.

“Are you sure about this, Sam?” a dark figure asks from the doorway. The magic in Sam’s bones oscillates. Sam tastes the ash and molten lava that formed the mantle of the earth. 

He knows this presence. He knows what has come to greet him.

Everything produces some vibrancy of magic, which are the threads that Sam can manipulate into weaves or songs, or cut if he needs to. Death is void of those signs of life. Magic bends around him, a celestial body in motion, like planets around the sun. Maybe Death is Source itself. 

Death steps into the room, leaning heavy on his cane. 

Dean hasn’t reacted yet, and Sam recognizes that this conversation is happening in a pocket of borrowed time. A split-second, the time it takes to make a decision. 

Death’s cane thuds on the hard floor, the metal tip sounding ominously heavy like the gavel on a judges desk. Lucifer has vanished, leaving Sam alone where he stands between Dean and Cas. 

Death comes to stand before him.

“You’re putting yourself at great risk,” Death explains. 

“What do you care?” Sam asks, and then remembers who he’s speaking to so he adds a respectable, “sir.”

Death studies him carefully, like he’s scrutinizing every bit of Sam’s being. 

“I hate to see good potential go to waste,” Death says. He sounds disappointed, like Sam is doing something wrong, “besides, what makes you think _you_ can save something like a seraphim? Especially one as… unsavoury as this.”

Death’s lips curl in a look of disdain as he looks down at Castiel. Sam vaguely remembers Death calling Cas pretentious once upon a time. 

“Are you telling me to stop?” Sam asks. 

“You Winchesters aren’t very sensible,” Death muses, “if I tell you to do anything, I find you often do the opposite. But you’re a smart boy, Sam. Maybe you’re smart enough to listen to reason.” 

“You’re telling me to stop,” Sam realizes, “because this is going to kill me? Or—or is it not going to work?”

“That has yet to be decided,” Death says, “but it will be the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done. I’d like if it wasn’t the last thing you did.”

“Too many cooks,” Lucifer growls, sounding like he’s speaking in Sam’s ear. 

“Too many people telling me what to do,” Sam agrees, and he tightens his grip on Castiel’s vessel and Dean’s shoulder, “if you aren’t here to help, then I have work to do. You can’t stop me from saving Cas.” 

Death regards him, looks him over again. Sam doesn’t know what he sees.

“You’re certainly going to try,” Death decides. 

Then he’s gone. The flames on the candles reignite. 

Sam closes his eyes, feels Dean’s rapid pulse under his hand. Feels the rattle of Castiel’s vessel. Feels the flow of magic in the universe, like scales over his skin. 

“Together,” Lucifer whispers, “let me come home.”

Sam takes a deep breath.

“Yes.”

He feels Dean flinch under his hand, a muffled shout of concern at Sam’s consent, but Lucifer grips Sam tight and together they plunge into the ocean of their magic. 

Sam drops the physical world entirely. He knows that Dean is hurting not because he can hear Dean crying out, but because he sees the way Dean’s soul flares when Lucifer, when Sam, because it is him, this has always been him, has to touch Dean’s soul directly, has to cut into it, and whittle Dean down piece-by-piece. Lucifer sings through him the sounds of hell, the demonic lineage in Sam’s aura shows it’s teeth, to strip away all of the layers of Dean’s soul with cuts so fine that the light itself is parted. They reduce him to his most basic brilliance. Love pours out like blood from the wound. 

Castiel’s grace fights him to preserve its nature, meets Sam’s touch with teeth and pride. He’s fury, destruction and agonizing song, filled with pain and joy. Stronger than Amy’s being, older than Sam can understand, Castiel’s grace fights this invasion of self. Sam is an infection, an idea, _I can be remade_. Sam is too deep, too intensive, for Castiel to recognize him as anything but Other, and he grips Sam and drags him down, down, down to drown him in the endless flow of magic that only angels traverse. 

Sam feels his grip falter, feels Dean, his anchor, Castiel’s grace, his target, fall from his hands. Feels the sharp edge he has in Dean’s soul become blunt and _tear_ at his brother’s love. He’s losing them! The pressure becomes overwhelming. They’re all drowning—

The cold metal tip of a cane under his chin. Sam’s body, far away, was beginning to crumple. 

“Steady now,” Death whispers. 

Just like Sam’s vision, it’s sewing water together. And that’s impossible, but Sam threads the pieces of Dean and Castiel together with Intention, with Purpose, and he finds spots where they bind naturally, where he finds their capacity to love matches. Sam puts Castiel back together with pieces of Dean’s soul and thinks of black holes swallowing light, of the membrane potential in cells forcing action, he thinks of those plates he saw on tv once, where they were once broken into pieces and then made whole with gold veins. 

He pours Dean’s gold into Castiel. He shoves his hands into the freezing sensation of Castiel’s grace until Sam’s hands are burning, until his thoughts have their flesh stripped away and all he is is simple Action and Reaction. Sam is the perpetual machine, once in motion he keeps all in motion, he holds all in potential. 

Castiel slips away again, falling deeper and deeper, and Sam chases him to the source of his song. He drags Dean’s soul with him, the glorious son, the radiant sun, in a place where light, where love, has not shone in billions of years. 

Sam works and toils and he suffers and he creates. He weaves song and structure together. They’re not deep enough, there’s still too many layers between the truth of what he needs to bring together. Of what he needs to design. 

Ancient magic wakes, comes alive in the marrow of his exposed bones, and courses through him as it comes back to source. It knows the way home. 

The deep divine takes interest. There are things watching, lurking, waiting. 

He reaches for the grace that bites, the love that soothes. 

There’s blood in the water.

Sam dives further into the magic deep,

dangerous,

and dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND SCENE.
> 
> Love y'all!! I'll see you soon for Dean's pov, which will cover his side of this story, and then take us a little further ;)


End file.
